Ride the Lightning (4): The Unforgiven
by jtm1848
Summary: The Enterprise gets an unlikely assist.


– THE UNFORGIVEN –

**Feb. 8, 2154**

Phlox sat down on the edge of T'Pol's bunk, wondering if his decision to discharge the Vulcan to her quarters the previous day had been a smart one. Like the rest of the ship, her room had been damaged in the battle at Azati; but personal quarters were at the absolute bottom of the repair list, and the wreckage had to offend the Vulcan sense of order. _Being in her quarters may only aggravate her unease, instead of calming it_, Phlox realized. _But confining her to sickbay—no, that would be worse._

"I'm not sure why I asked you to come see me," T'Pol was saying to him. Confusion spread across her normally-passive face. She was dressed in her pajamas, clenching an empty ceramic bowl to her chest.

"Perhaps you just needed some company," Phlox suggested, shrugging his shoulders.

"Perhaps," she answered softly, and fell silent.

Phlox allowed a minute to pass before he stood up and approached her. "How do you feel?" he asked. "As your friend, not as your doctor."

T'Pol looked up at him. "It's a curious question," she mused. Phlox waited for her to continue. "I thought," she said, sighing, "that without the trellium, I'd be able to regain my control, to screen out the emotions of everyone around me. Instead, I can't even suppress my own."

Recognizing just how difficult the admission was for a Vulcan, Phlox gave his best, friendly smile. "It's not surprising that there are residual effects," he spoke reassuringly. "They should decrease with time."

"And if they don't?" T'Pol asked sharply.

"Then you'll learn to cope with them."

T'Pol sank onto her bunk. "I'm not certain I'll be able to," she replied quietly. "I'm…"

"Afraid?" Phlox responded, reading it in T'Pol's body language. "That's perfectly natural, T'Pol."

"But Vulcans don't experience fear," she answered as if quoting a mantra.

"Emotions are powerful things, T'Pol. You allowed yourself to release them. Don't expect them to disappear overnight." He smiled encouragingly. "Have patience. We'll get you there eventually."

…

"Degra said these Kovaalans have only one or two ships inside the nebula," Travis observed, looking at the tactical schematic on the main screen in the _Enterprise_'s command center. With the bulk of the command staff out of commission with various medical issues, Travis had willingly pushed himself forward, branching out from navigations to handle tactical, as well as command, duties. In essence, he had started to function as an all-purpose first officer, and it was to his credit that the transition had been seamless; Archer was scarcely even aware of how much, and how quickly, he had come to rely on the young officer.

"It would appear that his information is out of date," Hoshi responded. She superimposed the most recent sensor survey over the nebula. Various spots of light emerged, where the computer had detected anomalous readings that could not be attributed to any known source. "We're getting half a dozen strong readings, plus several weaker ones. It looks like they have at least six ships in there."

"Do we have any confirmation that those _are _Kovaalan ships, or are we still speculating?" Archer asked. "Do we have any way to verify before we enter the nebula?"

"Not really, sir," Hoshi said, answering the second question and implicitly answering the first. "The magnetic currents in the nebula are disrupting our sensors—it's taken some fancy work just to get these readings. The only way we'll know for sure is by getting within short range of them."

"If they're accustomed to operating in the nebula," Travis added, "it's fair to assume that their sensors are more attuned for it." Degra's information indicated that the Kovaalans were opportunistic raiders who used the nebula as a safe base of operations. "They'll be able to get the jump on us—with the ship in the condition it is, we might not even recognize them until they're firing."

Ejecting a violent stream of air, Archer pursed his lips. "Is there any way we can fix up our sensors? Give us an earlier warning?"

"Not in the time we have," Hoshi answered melancholically. "It looks like our only choice is to go in, run the gauntlet, and hope we make it through intact."

"Forgive me if I don't particularly like that choice," Archer replied dryly. He stared in momentary astonishment as the screen winked off.

"It's probably just the ODN connections," Travis said quickly, reacting instantly to the blank screen. "If you can give me a couple minutes, I'll get it—"

"Its okay, Travis." Archer raised a hand to stop the ensign. "We saw all we needed. If there's not a way to improve our sensors..." He fell silent, the three officers staring together at the monitor.

"What about stealth?" Hoshi ventured.

Archer looked at her with surprise. "It's a good idea, Ensign, but the _Enterprise_isn't in any kind of shape—"

"No, wait!" Travis interjected excitedly. "She's on to it, Captain! Think about it: the nebula is _already _disrupting their sensor readings. We don't _have _to be in a perfect stealth mode." Mayweather's hands were moving as furiously as his voice. "It's not stealth so much as—no, it's more analogous to—a submarine, moving under water! The medium is already providing some cover!"

"Do you think we can do enough?" Archer asked skeptically. "According to Degra, they're not very tolerant of trespassers; if there's even a stray reading, they'll send a ship to investigate…how close are they to the subspace corridor?"

Hoshi's expression faltered with her answer. "Within sixty thousand kilometers."

Archer folded his arms across his chest. "With that distance, they're bound to figure out the ruse."

"But at that point, would it matter?" Travis asked excitedly. "The longer we can hold the ruse, the less time they have to react. They might still figure it out, but by that point it'll be a race to the vertex—and they can't move any faster in there than we can!"

"We can ionize the hull," Archer suggested, the idea catching fire within him. "With all of the ionization in the nebula, it'll look like a background anomaly."

"And there was a layer of metreon gas here—well, around here," Travis added, pointing to the now-defunct screen. "If we enter there, it'll reflect our engine signature. It'll create multiple sensor ghosts and false readings—even if they decide to check out the ionization readings, they won't know which one to check first!"

"How long will it take to prepare?" Archer asked, smiling. Travis' enthusiasm was infectious.

"Thirty minutes, tops, to ionize the hull," Mayweather said decisively. "While we're doing that, I can bring the ship around to the entrance point."

"Let's do it."

…

"By the Furies, what the _hell _where you thinking?" Depac bellowed, blowing thick air into Degra's face. Following Degra's departure from the Sphere, the two Xindi-primates had reunited, with Depac traveling incognito in a primate ship. Now, the two ships were docked, and Degra was wishing frantically that they weren't; it erased any chance he had of escaping.

"You gave them the coordinates?" Depac screamed, face-to-face with the scientist. "You gave them the coordinates to our _most important _facility? They could launch an attack against the Council itself! Wipe us out, destroy any chance we have of saving our people!"

"Did you even look at the readings on their ship?" Degra retorted, steeling himself. "The _Enterprise_was _heavily _damaged. They wouldn't stand a chance against a single one of our cruisers—it's amazing that they haven't been defeated by _space dust _yet! If they tried to fire on the Council chambers, they'd just blow themselves up!"

"And what if they sent the coordinates to the other human ships in the Expanse?" Depac demanded.

"Those readings were never confirmed," Degra sputtered, scrambling for footing. "Besides, there is no guaranteed road here! We have no choice but to play the odds, and the odds say overwhelmingly that Archer is no longer a threat! The reptilians saw to that!"

"This discussion is pointless," Depac shot back. "You won't be allowed to bring Archer before the Council anway."

"Then we won't ask their permission!" Degra countered.

"_We_?" Depac snarled angrily. "You still haven't convinced _me _that I should support this fool's crusade of yours!"

Degra cleared his throat carefully. "I, ah, promised your support to Archer."

"Unbelievable!" Depac threw his hands up in outrage. "Well, I'm not giving it to him! If that human arrives, looking for my assistance, I'll let the reptilians kill him!"

"Councilor," Degra insisted, "it is imperative that the Council _listen _to Archer!"

"Archer will be killed the moment he steps into the Council chamber!" Depac began pacing furiously. "What makes you think you can get the others to listen?"

"They have to listen!" Degra vowed, side-stepping the question. "His allegations are too important to simply dismiss! You heard them yourself!"

"And I wasn't convinced!" Depac growled. "How about you, Jannar?" The arboreal councilor was standing in the shadows, trying to avoid the confrontation. "Do you believe Archer's being truthful?"

"Yes." The admission, and the firmness behind it, shocked Depac into silence. "At least, Archer believes it is the truth. He knows nothing of any potential human plot against us, and the humans of this century don't even have the ability to destroy us."

Depac stuttered several times. He had been expecting support from the non-assertive arboreal. "Do you really think Archer's telling us everything?"

Jannar raised a hairy, three-fingered hand in an unconscious imitation of the human gesture. "No, I don't think he's told us everything," the councilor admitted. "But I can't explain the evidence that we saw. It's too—fantastic, and yet we can't dismiss it either. I think there is far more going on here than we know about."

"The humans could have manufactured that evidence!" Depac retorted angrily. "They'd do anything to save their planet!"

"As would we!" Degra shot back. "And doesn't 'anything' _include _listening to his claims? What if working _with _the humans is what it takes to save our people? You can't ignore the possibility!"

"Think about it, Depac," Jannar said far more calmly. "Even according to our benefactors, it'll be centuries before the humans threaten us. We can afford to spend a little time making certain of what we're doing."

"If Archer is telling the truth," Degra added, "then all the Council's efforts will have been for nothing! We'll have _doomed _ourselves!"

Depac stepped back, uncomfortable under the tag-team attack. "Even so, the reptilians patrol this side of the subspace corridor! They'll destroy the human vessel as soon as it comes through!"

"I've already considered that," Degra answered. "_We _can protect them."

"Are you a fool, Degra?" Depac stared at the scientist. "The reptilians have already demonstrated that they'll ignore my authority as a councilor. If we try to protect the humans, what makes you think that the reptilians won't simply fire on _us_?"

…

Hoshi was on a mission of sorts as she left the command center and set out prowling around the vacated corridors of F-deck. The lower deck was primarily storage bays, and as Hoshi ducked around unmoved debris and unlit shadows, she remembered that little of crucial importance was stored in those bays; the vital engineering supplies were stored closer to the core of the starship, and this bays were used to hold the organic food supplies used to provide the crew with nutritional variety. The unmistakable odor of burnt vegetables assailed Hoshi's nose, but she ignored it: weeks after the battle at Azati, she had become accustomed to the stench of the damaged _Enterprise_.

Ducking under another draping beam, Hoshi found her target: kneeling by an access panel was Commander Tucker, who had been released from sickbay early that morning. "Crewman Rostov said I'd find you here," Hoshi said, kneeling down beside him.

Trip kept his attention focused the panel. "Repair crews are starting down here tomorrow," he said absently, running a laser welding torch between the severed halves of a conduit. "I finished my last project, had a little time, and figured I'd try to get them some power to work with." He stared intently at his work. "These assemblies are all fused together. I've spent the last hour trying to isolate the damaged relays."

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Hoshi asked cautiously.

"Not unless you can kill a hangover. Or resurrect the dead," Trip replied, his voice devoid of emotion. He halted the welding. "Crewman Taylor had a real knack for this kind of thing. But she's not here, is she? And neither is Crewman Kamata, or Ensign Marcel, or a dozen others."

The engineer stood up, hearing the cracks as his back straightened. "Do you know that we found Taylor down here? Right over there, outside the cargo bay." Trip pointed. "She was probably trying to get to her station. If she'd made it a few more meters—" Tucker's voice caught momentarily. "I wouldn't have to write this damn letter. So no, Ensign, there's not much you can help me with. There's not much _anyone _can help me with."

…

Mayweather's estimate was precise: twenty-seven minutes later, Captain Archer found himself back on the bridge, ready to enter the nebula. "Go to tactical alert," he ordered, and Ensign Rahimi brought the _Enterprise_to a relative state of battle-readiness. "Take us in, helm."

Plotted on a soft, parabolic curve, the once-graceful starship swooped around the mammoth cloud of gas and slid through the outer horizon. Watching their progress on the main viewscreen, Archer reflected that it was an unusual nebula: rather than the brilliant colors of myriad gases so common in these great formations, this nebula seemed to be monochromatic. Variations of gray filled their vision, with black and white striations marking the inner currents. _It looks, _Archer thought, _like a stormy sea, _off the coasts of his native New England.

"Tactical status?" Archer asked, not looking behind him. The nebula was entrancing, in a melancholic sort of way: and he harbored the old captain's suspicion that, if he kept is eyes focused forward, they might catch a danger a second or two faster. It was nonsensical in the age of electron sensors and computerized monitors, he knew, but he kept surveying the gases nonetheless.

"Hull ionization holding steady," Rahimi reported.

"I'm picking up over a dozen reflections of our signature," Travis said. In the bridge shuffle, Mayweather had taken over alpha-duty on the science station; Ensign Hutchinson, a more-than-competent pilot, was handling alpha-duty on the helm. "The reflections are reading as simple ion disturbances," he added in satisfaction.

"Bring her in gently, Hutch," Archer ordered. "Let's not tip our hand until we're as close to the vertex as possible."

"Captain!" Rahimi shouted out in alarm. "A ship is dropping out of warp—on a dead intercept course!"

"_What_?" Archer bellowed, his senses jumping into high gear. "How is that possible?"

"Can you get an ID on it?" Travis shouted across the bridge.

"Yes, sir, I—this can't be right!" Rahimi ran the sensor readings furiously. "I'm reading Starfleet—NX class!"

"That _can't _be right," Archer murmured, then raised his voice again. "Are you sure it's not a sensor reflection?"

"There's no ionizing distortion. It's not us," Travis confirmed. "But it definitely reads as NX-class—the dimensions, the compound alloys, everything checks out!"

"They're pulling up!" Rahimi added from her rear station. "They're coming to station keeping, within visual range!"

"On screen!" Archer ordered. As it popped up, the captain squinted, amazed by what he saw: approaching from the rear of the _Enterprise_was, unmistakably, a Starfleet-issue NX-class starship. _That's impossible, _he thought, struggling to reconcile the competing facts. _We're the only commissioned NX-class. Who the hell is copying our design? Is this some sort of trap?_

"It could be the NX-02," Hoshi suggested. "The _Colombia_."

"It's still under construction," Travis responded doubtfully. "It wasn't scheduled to launch until mid-year."

"And how the hell would it have gotten out here?" Archer replied, his lip curling up.

"Captain, I don't think that's the _Colombia_," Hoshi said suddenly. "The transponder signal reads as—us, sir, it reads as us."

_Now I know that it's a trap,_ Archer thought, ready to order their weapons into action, but Hoshi pre-empted him.

"Take a look at this, sir," Hoshi said, magnifying the image onscreen. It was shaped like the _Enterprise_, all right; and sprawled across the front of the ship's saucer were the clearly identifiable words: **NX-01 Enterprise**

But the ship onscreen bore even more damage, if that was possible; its hull was a blackened mess of artificial scar tissue and thick, black scorch marks. Open electromagnetic currents shot across from receptor to receptor. One of the warp pylons appeared to be twisted. The navigational deflector crinkled with blue energy. And that was just what was visible by eyesight.

"We're being hailed," Hoshi announced, accompanied by the familiar beeping of her communications console. "They're asking to speak to you, Captain—they're asking for you by name."

_What the hell is going on here?_ Archer bit the inside of his cheek momentarily as he weighed his options. "Stand by weapons," he said finally. "Travis, plot a firing solution. Hoshi, open a channel."

The response onscreen raised more questions than answers. It was identifiable as the _Enterprise_bridge, although there were serious medications; Archer's eyes could pick out pulsing power conduits in the background. And the crew—definitely not Starfleet. Several of the posts were manned by humans, although the person at the helm bore unfamiliar facial structures, and the person standing in front of the viewer was—Archer peered at the ears closely—_Vulcan?_

"Captain Archer," the Vulcan said in flat, no-nonsense tones. "You must reverse course immediately."

Archer stared in mystification. "Who _are _you?" he breathed.

"There's not time to explain," the Vulcan insisted. "Alter your heading."

_Sometimes life requires a leap of faith,_ Archer thought to himself. "Come about, Hutch," he ordered. "Bring us back out of the nebula." He returned to the viewscreen. "Now would you tell me what the hell is going on?"

…

As Captain Archer and Ensign Sato reached the docking port, Major Hayes and a MACO squad came trotting around the bend of the corridor, carrying with them standard-issue phase rifles. Archer had told Hayes that they had met what appeared to be their own ship, manned by a different crew; the major didn't know what to expect, but he was going to be prepared; especially this deep in the Delphic Expanse, with this…_bizarre_ of an encounter. The threatening possibilities were endless.

Before he triggered the airlock doors, Archer checked behind him to make sure that the MACO contingent was in position; between the dim light, their gray uniforms, and the creative use of debris to shield them, the squad was barely visible. Satisfied with their security precautions, the captain took a deep breath and hit the controls as Hayes, standing beside him, leveled his rifle at the hatchway.

Through the hatch stepped two aliens.

The first, leading by a half-step, was the Vulcan they had seen earlier. His expression was unmovable, although it was etched with the lines of experience; the ears bore the familiar point, and he bore a head of graying hair. _Middle-aged, _Archer guessed, even though he knew little about Vulcan aging patterns. The alien was dressed in civilian clothing, and carried no weapons.

The second alien—humanoid, with physical features within a standard deviation for _Homo sapiens_. Her skin was a deep olive, and her hair was a thick, lustrous black. The only alien feature was a raised ridge of skin, reaching from the tip of her nose to the middle of her forehead.

"Your weapons will not be necessary," the Vulcan said calmly. "We come unarmed, in peace and friendship."

"You'll forgive me if I'd like some answers first," Archer retorted dryly. "Like, who are you?"

"My name is Lorian," the Vulcan replied. He nodded to the woman beside him. "This is Karyn Archer, my first officer."

The captain looked at Karyn with unrestrained curiosity.

"We should find a place to talk," Lorian continued. "Perhaps the conference room? And you'll want T'Pol to join us."

"I—the conference room is fine," Archer answered, his mind struggling to keep up with the influx. "But T'Pol may be unavailable."

Lorian raised both hands in a human gesture of conciliation. "I know about her—medical condition, Captain, but you'll want her to join us."

Archer looked at Lorian through slit eyes. "All right," he said finally. "Since you know our ship so well, why don't you lead the way?"

…

Hanging outside the windows of the conference room, the _Enterprise_copy looked even worse than it had at a distance; every hull plate was streaked and scorched, battered with pockmarks and cracked into a dozen separate pieces. The viewports were obscured, plated over with sheets of scrap metal; and extending backwards, the graceful pylons and warp nacelles skittered with currents of unrestrained energy.

Captain Archer paused for only a second as he waited for the full party to enter the room. Two of the MACO guards pushed them shut, and took up stances on either side. Along with them, Hoshi had come as well, and T'Pol had joined them from her quarters. While Archer would have liked to have Travis present—he had been relying more and more on the young officer—Travis was commanding the bridge, keeping a watchful eye out for the Kovaalans.

"Now will you tell me what this is all about?" Archer demanded the instant the doors shut. "I'm not used to seeing my own ship on my viewscreen!"

"You can't take your ship into the subspace corridor," Lorian replied, unperturbed. "If you do that, you'll be thrown back in time a hundred and seventeen years."

"And just how would you know that?" Archer asked suspiciously.

"Because it's already happened," Lorian answered. "We had to find you, let you know, to make certain that history doesn't repeat itself."

…

"Your attempts to cloak the _Enterprise _didn't work. The Kovaalans attacked as soon as it entered the nebula.

_"Three ships, closing fast!" Ensign Rahimi shouted out scarcely an instant before the first volley struck the _Enterprise_. The ship shuddered with the blast. "Phase cannons are offline!"_

_If it was due to the enemy shots, or due to the previous damage, it didn't really matter; seconds into the battle, and the Starfleet crew had already lost its best weapon. "Torpedoes, full spread!" Archer shouted out instead. "Try to knock them off our tail!" The ship shook again. "How soon until we reach the corridor?"_

_Travis' head was framed by the flashing red lights of tactical alert. "Eighteen seconds!" he reported._

_"Hull plating's gone!" Rahimi screamed as she dove from her chair, narrowly avoiding a massive blast from the panels behind her. "Targeting controls are offline!" she added, staggering to her feet. The ship shuddered again as two more blasts of weaponry connected, knocking her back to the deck._

_Archer stayed planted in his chair, griping the arms tightly as the turbulence sought to shake him free._

_"We're losing speed!" Hutchinson reported._

_"Hold your course!" Archer bellowed. "Give it maximum speed!"_

_The _Enterprise _poured every iota of thrust it could find through the engines, striving to stay ahead of the Kovaalan weaponry._

_"Horizon in three…two…one!" Hutchinson shouted, and scarcely a second ahead of its pursuers, the great starship shot into the subspace corridor. Behind it, the Kovaalan raiders veered off, unwilling to follow into the treacherous tunnel._

_The trip through the corridor only took a few seconds, but it didn't take long before your crew realized that something was wrong._

_"No sign of pursuit!" Rahimi reported, having regained her feet and her station. "No sign of—of anything, sir!"_

_"That can't be right," Archer replied. "No sign of Degra?"_

_"Nothing on long-range sensors," Travis confirmed._

_"Are we at the right coordinates?"_

_"Yes, sir," Hutchinson said, double-checking his readings. "Ensign Mayweather, can you check the starcharts? I'm getting some weird readings!"_

_"You're right!" Travis reported excitedly. "The differences are small, but the stars definitely aren't where they should be!"_

_"Are you sure we're at the right coordinates?" Archer repeated insistently._

_"Yes, sir!" Travis answered. "It looks more like—stellar drift! This is where the stars would have been a hundred years ago!"_

The _Enterprise_was in the right place.

…

"But it was over a hundred years early," Lorian said, continuing his narrative.

"I'm getting sick of time travel," Archer said, tiredly, rubbing his temples to relieve the stress of temporal mechanics. "Did you—we—figure out how it happened?"

"We're still not entirely sure," Lorian admitted. "But we have a theory. The subspace corridor works by warping the space-time continuum, and we believe something in your impulse wake destabilized it further, causing the _Enterprise_to shift in time."

"Sounds plausible," Archer muttered. He pulled out a chair and sat down. "All right, then, why didn't you—didn't we—go back through it?"

Karyn jumped. "T'Pol," she said, nodding at the science officer, "eventually determined that it was a one-time phenomenon—we couldn't artificially recreate the conditions to bring us back to this exact time. We debated taking our chances with it, but the chances of getting any closer were minuscule, and the mission was too important to risk getting lost further back, or too far forward, in time."

…

_"I'll notify the crew," Archer said wearily, leaning against a broken beam in his ready room. "Let Hutch know we'll be getting underway."_

_"Yes, sir," Travis answered, then hesitantly: "What course should we set?"_

_"Hell, I don't know." Archer turned the possibilities over in his mind. "Even if we found a way out of the Expanse, we can't go back to Earth. We'd be contaminating our own culture, our own history. Cochrane's warp flight won't even happen for, oh, another twenty-six years or so."_

_"But we know about the first Xindi attack," Travis suggested. "If we could get to Earth, warn them—"_

_"You know it's not that simple, Travis," Archer replied. "We can't have any contact with Earth. But maybe we can turn this to our advantage—if we could stop the attack from this end—"_

_"The probe won't be deployed for more than a hundred years," Travis added. "That gives us plenty of time, but—we'd have to remain stranded out here."_

_"It wouldn't even be _us_ stopping the probe," Archer realized. "It would be our descendants. We'll have to train another generation—we'll have to provide another generation." He fell silent as the full implications became clear; he was condemning not just his own crew, but their children and their children's children, to a lifetime spent hiding in the Expanse. But the survival of humanity hung in the balance._

"It was only a matter of time before the first child was born.

…

"The _Enterprise_became a generational ship," Lorian continued. "You showed your children how to operate and maintain its systems, and they did the same for their children. Most of the crew today are your grandchildren."

"That's unlikely," T'Pol interposed, speaking for the first time. "_Enterprise_doesn't have fuel or provisions for such a long journey."

Lorian smiled slightly. "You've hardly changed, Mother."

"I beg your pardon?" T'Pol responded with both eyebrows shooting up.

"You made alliances with other species," Lorian went on. "Traded with passing ships. Technology for food and supplies. You even acquired a few alien crew members." He nodded towards Karyn, answering the question of her heritage. "We did our best to carry out the mission that _you _gave us, Captain."

Archer stood back up, unable to stay still. "To destroy the first Xindi probe. But you failed."

Lorian looked abashed. "We had years to prepare, but in the end we were only one starship," he said, gravelly regret clear in his voice. "We were in the right place, at the right time, but our weapons were no match for the Xindi. We couldn't get close enough to destroy the probe. I'm sorry, Captain," he said meekly. "We failed you."

"You came all this way just to tell us that?" Archer asked, discouraged.

"We couldn't stop the first attack, Captain, but we can help you stop the second," Lorian replied firmly. "We can make certain you reach the rendezvous with Degra this time."

"But you said we couldn't travel safely through the corridor," T'Pol countered. "How do you propose we get there?"

"You won't need to," Karyn answered. "We've encountered dozens of species during our time here. We arranged trades for some propulsion technology." She handed a battered padd to T'Pol. "We got these schematics from Haridan traders."

"We can use them to modify your injector assembly," Lorian explained. "You'll be able to top at warp six-point-nine for brief intervals."

"The hull wasn't designed for that speed," T'Pol countered again, unwilling to trust this beings who claimed to be their descendants. "We'll be crushed instantly."

"We also have ways to reinforce your structural integrity," Karyn answered. "You don't need to worry about the engineering: we've had many years' of experience with these technologies. We know how to overhaul the _Enterprise_'s systems for it."

"You've made these modifications on your own ship?" Archer challenged, hoping for a positive answer.

"Some of them," Lorian acknowledged. "But our systems started out in worse shape, and they have a century of wear and tear added on. Our plasma injectors can't handle the stress, but yours are practically new." Lorian saw the disbelieving look on Archer's face. "You're still not convinced."

"You've got to admit," Archer replied tartly, "it's a lot to accept."

Lorian stood up as well, confronting Archer over the surface of the table. "Captain, I'm sorry, but we don't have a lot of time. If you want to stop the second weapon, we need to get started on these modifications."

"And I'm supposed to let you access my systems?" Archer demanded. "All I have is your word about this story of time travel!"

"To be fair, Captain," Karyn intervened softly, "that's all you offered to Degra and Jannar. And they were willing to trust _you_."

Archer sighed. "Well, we have an advantage, at least. Let's go down to sickbay; Phlox can confirm your DNA."

…

"They are who they claim to be," Phlox noted, showing the diagram of DNA sequences on the overhead monitor. "At least, as far as their genes are concerned. Most of the young woman's ancestors were human, but there are also chromosomes from three species I've never seen before."

Archer nodded, unsure of how to handle the information. "And the human chromosomes…" he began, trailing off.

Phlox picked up the hinted question. "Yes, Captain. This set of makers—" he highlighted them on the screen. "They belong to you. She would appear to be your great-granddaughter. I've also identified three human great-grandmothers, if you're interested."

"Not at the moment, Doctor," Archer murmured. "What did you find out about Lorian?"

"Ah, that was particularly interesting," Phlox answered. "I compared your genetic profile with his, Commander," the doctor went on, addressing T'Pol. "These base pair sequences—here and here—could only have come from you. It appears that you are, indeed, his mother."

"But the other chromosomes are human," T'Pol pointed out, perturbed.

"That's correct," Phlox replied. "They came from his father."

"That's impossible!" T'Pol blurted out. "Vulcans and humans have never been able to reproduce!" She spoke as though the idea itself was anathema.

"Nonetheless, the evidence is right here," Phlox answered. "According to Lorian, I discovered—I will discover—a method of successfully combining human and Vulcan genomes."

"Phlox," Archer said carefully, "who's the father?"

"Commander Tucker."

T'Pol's eyes opened wider in alarm.

…

Captain's log, supplemental. After seeing the proof of their ancestry, I've decided to proceed with Lorian's plan to modify our warp engines. Both ships have retreated a safe distance from the nebula to avoid a conflict with the Kovaalans. In happier news, Lieutenant Reed is due to be discharged to his quarters later this afternoon.

Trip Tucker watched Lorian carefully as the older man—his son—worked on the _Enterprise_'s warp drive. But Trip wasn't concerned about Lorian's technical expertise; instead, his attention was focused on something more profound, more esoteric. _Can he really be my son? Can I see anything of me in him? What kind of a father did I—will I—make?_

"It's the strangest thing," Trip said finally, handing Lorian a dynospanner. "I look at you, but I don't see myself. I see my father. Right here, around the eyes." Trip pointed at his own.

"Yes, you've told me about your father," Lorian answered absently, focusing on the injector relays. "You told me about the sacrifices he made to keep your family together. I'd like to believe…" his voice trailed off momentarily as he fiddled with a connector circuit. "I'd like to believe that, in the same spirit, I've kept the _Enterprise_family together."

Trip smiled at the thought. "My father did always say that family is everything," the engineer noted. "Although I don't think I've heard anyone refer to the ship's crew as a family."

They fell silent for a moment before Trip continued, half-jokingly. "Now the ears," he said, referring to Lorian's tapered auditory organs, "those are your mother's." Tucker saw the corner of Lorian's mouth turn up. "Wait a minute, you smiled!"

"I wasn't raised with the same inhibitions most Vulcans have," Lorian replied, recovering his gravitas rapidly. "My mother was the only Vulcan on a ship full of humans, and her own skills—they never recovered from her bout with Pa'nar Syndrome."

_Wait a sec, _Trip realized. _Does he even know about her use of trellium? _"So how have you managed those wild Vulcan emotions of yours?" Tucker asked instead.

"My human side—and my human teachers—allowed me to find a balance between emotion and logic," Lorian answered. "I've even been known to tell a joke on occasion," he deadpanned.

Together, the two men walked the short distance to the injector assembly. "Do you have a coil spanner?" Lorian asked, receiving the tool in reply. He knelt over to study the assembly. "I learned almost everything I know by studying your engineering logs."

"That's pretty dry reading," Tucker noted. "I hope I gave you some hands-on training as well. That's definitely the best way to learn."

Lorian's hesitation indicated the gravity of his reply. "I'm sure you would have," he said, before turning to walk away. "You should reinitialize the start-up routine before going to warp."

Trip felt the air grow cold. "Wait—what did you say? There's something you're not telling me!"

"There's not much to tell," Lorian answered gruffly. "You died. When I was fourteen."

_So that's the way it was, _Tucker realized. _That's the kind of father I made—the kind that deserted his family. _It was irrational, illogical in the extreme, but Trip couldn't avoid the feeling of self-recrimination. _MY father never would have done that._ "I'm sorry," he breathed softly. "It couldn't have been easy for you."

"I got through," Lorian answered. "You gave me a good start." The hybrid put down his tools, unable to hold back the full force of his emotions. "You were a good father, Dad—Trip. It's strange…being able to tell you that. You never expect to see a parent again."

"I know what you mean," Trip said gently. "My own father died when I was twelve. It sure wasn't easy, growing up without him around. For years, I blamed him for abandoning us—it took years before I realized that it wasn't his choice." He came to a fumbling halt, recalling the hatred and loathing that he had harbored for so many years. "He left me to raise myself and my sister. My mother—well, we probably would've been better off without her, but I refused to leave. My father had taught me that much, at least." He chuckled mirthlessly. "When my mother remarried, I refused to consider him my 'dad.' He was a drinking buddy for a number of years, but…sometimes I wonder how things would've turned out if my father had lived on." The haunting images passed before his eyes, unbidden. "My family fell apart the day he died, but no one wanted to admit it."

"You have no need to fear, Commander," Lorian answered. "When—when we lost you, the rest of the crew stepped in. Your example led them well."

"Do me a favor, okay?" Trip replied. "Don't tell me that I was a good father. I don't believe it, I know that it's not possible. I know myself, and you know what?" He started to get angry. "I'm a crappy excuse for a person. If you want someone to look up to, find someone else."

…

On his first tour of the future _Enterprise_, Captain Archer's head sat atop a swivel, swinging around as he tried to identify all of the renovations made to the ship. Everything from the carpet to the lighting looked different; _hell, they HAVE carpet. And I suppose, when you change the lighting, that everything else will automatically look different—but did they change the paint scheme?_

Nothing was more different than the crew. It wasn't just the change in uniforms; rather than the dark-blue overalls worn by his crew, their future comrades had a more casual uniform. To a glancing eye, it looked like pure civilian clothing; it took a careful look to pick out the subtle patterns that indicated rank and position amongst the crew.

No, the biggest difference was the racial diversity of the crew. On board Archer's ship, the number of aliens was exactly two: Phlox and T'Pol. The rest were purebred human. In the future—the captain guessed that nearly one in two bore some markings of alien genes, be it pure or mixed ancestry.

"We've doubled the efficiency of our atmospheric processors," Karyn continued, giving her great-grandfather a review of the renovations they had made. "We can give you those specs too."

"Thanks," Archer answered mildly, noticing two children playing ball in the corridor. _Children on a starship? I suppose—if you have to—but I sure wouldn't want that kind of responsibility. _"Starfleet will be glad to hear that the _Enterprise_was built to last." He caught the ball, and flicked it back to the closer kid. _Must be one of Phlox's progeny—those look like muted Denobulan crests on his face._

"That boy was part Denobulan, right?" Archer finally asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Karyn smiled warmly. "Many among our crew are descendants of Doctor Phlox. He and Amanda had nine children. They started the first family aboard the ship, in fact."

"Amanda—Amanda Cole?" Archer responded, a little shocked. Phlox and Corporal Cole didn't strike him as being a natural match, but in love, strange things can happen.

"Yes, Captain," Karyn replied warmly. "While you kept command of the ship, the doctor and Amanda became—I guess you'd call them the center of family. You and Phlox formed quite the tag-team."

"You're not entirely human yourself," Archer noted, referring obliquely to the raised cartilage bisecting Karyn's face.

"My great-grandmother was Ikaaran," Karyn answered. "Yes, Captain, she was your wife. Her name was Esilia—you rescued her ship from an anomaly field. By the time you returned its crew to their homeworld, Esilia and you had fallen in love, and she chose to stay."

"Esilia," Archer murmured, letting the name turn over on his tongue. "Judging by you, Karyn, I must have made a good decision."

Karyn blushed. "Thank you."

"You know," Archer went on, shifting gears as they worked their way down the corridor, "finding your ship explains a few things. When the Xindi took me prisoner, they kept asking me one question over and over. They wanted to know how many ships Starfleet had in the Expanse."

"I'm sure they've picked up on their sensors more than once," Karyn replied. "We've tried to keep a low profile, but it's hard to in the Expanse. There are plenty of places to hide, but once a rumor starts…" she waved her hands helplessly. "And we haven't been shy about helping ships in distress. I'm surprised you didn't run into anyone else who had heard of you."

"We did, a couple of times," the captain admitted. "I thought it was our own reputation preceding us—turns out it was, just in a different way."

Turning to open a door, Karyn pulled to a halt midway down the corridor. "I thought we were going to the bridge," Archer queried, puzzled by the abrupt change in plans.

"There's someone who would like to see you first."

…

Archer noted instantly that the room had been stripped of the usual artificial lights; instead, scattered in precise array, it was lit by a collection of candles. The candlelight glowed softly, reminding Archer of the warm aura in the ancient halls of a great library, or perhaps the ancient monastic halls of a holy temple; otherwise, the room was quite barren, except for the presence of a handful of twisted, metallic sculptures.

The person in the room was tiny—barely a meter and a half, Archer guessed. Turned away from him, the person was cloaked in heavy robes that seemed to belie the warm temperature in the room.

"Hello, Jonathan," the person said, her voice quiet and gravelly. Swaying slightly, moving in slow steps, she turned to face the captain, revealing to him a person ravaged by age and disease; beneath the robes, her body was skeletal, hunched over, as it moved stiffly, as if in constant pain. The lines on her face were etched deep, and thin, white hair barely covered the top of her head.

"T'Pol," Archer breathed in wonderment. Despite the physical differences, it was clearly her: the eyes still shown with the same intelligence, the same hard-headed pragmatism, that he had always associated with his—_well, let's just say it. She's my friend._ "T'Pol," he said again. "I can't believe it—I mean, I should've known—but I never expected—"

"It's okay, Jonathan," she replied, her voice creaking. "I never expected to see you, either." She waved a hand, gesturing for him to come closer.

Archer gladly stepped forward, and she reached out, clasping him by both arms. It was a mix between a hug and support, and recognizing the Vulcan's shaky stance, Archer helped lower her to a chair.

"It's good to see you," she said slowly.

"It's good to see you too, T'Pol." Archer glanced around, and pulled up another chair beside her. "Living with humans for so long has changed you."

"Just as living with Vulcans would change you, Jonathan," T'Pol answered.

"I would've come on my own, T'Pol, but—they didn't tell me you were still aboard."

"You mean, still alive." Archer thought he noticed a twinkle in her eyes. "You look well, Jonathan. How—how is Trip?"

"He's fine," Archer answered gingerly. "He's had a few bumps recently, but he's doing fine. If you'd like, I'll have him come by and say hello."

"That might—that might be a little awkward," T'Pol replied softly. "But I want to hear more about how you're doing." She took his hand and held it between her own.

"There's so much I want to ask you," Archer replied, mesmerized by the electric touch. "I don't know where to start—I wish we had enough time to get reacquainted."

"Jonathan, there's always time for family," T'Pol answered. "Your mission will still be there, and you need to get something off your mind. What's been bothering you?"

Archer blew a lungful of air out through tightened lips. "I don't really know where to begin, T'Pol."

T'Pol surprised the captain by giving a faint smile. "What's bothering you, Jonathan?" she repeated.

"I can't stop thinking about an old folk song from Earth," he began, leaning forward towards T'Pol. "It's a song about war. There's one line that I can't shake from my head: 'the way we've always done before.'"

T'Pol said nothing, waiting for the captain to continue.

"When I was in school, one of my teachers told us something that shocked me: with the sole exception of the last hundred years or so, following the Final World War—you could pick literally any time in human history, and somewhere around the globe, there was a war taking place. _Any time._ And it makes me think of the lies that perpetuate those wars. In the history of my own region alone—things like the sinking of the _Maine, _the _Lusitania,_TonkinBay." He shuddered, unbidden. "Nonexistent weapons of mass destruction. And now we're hurtling ourselves into another conflict that's based on a lie. At least, this time it's not our own leaders doing the lying."

"It's been my observation, Jonathan, that humans can always find a reason to go war," T'Pol replied.

"But, where does it end, T'Pol? Are we doomed to spend the rest of human existence engaged in war? Aren't we _ever _going to break away from that pattern?"

"Jonathan, it is illogical to believe that humans have any control over conflict initiated by other races," T'Pol observed dryly.

"But isn't that the point?" Archer countered. "I mean, we still have control over how we _react _to provocation. Aren't we accountable for that? But every time we feel ourselves threatened, we resort to force—even though history has demonstrated, time and again, that force is insufficient to truly end a threat."

"What would you propose then?"

"Albert Einstein—I don't know if you're familiar with him." T'Pol nodded, indicating that she recognized the name. "He said that 'Peace cannot be kept by force. It can only be achieved by understanding.'"

"And what if your enemies are shooting you in the meantime?" T'Pol posited in a crackly voice. She mirrored the captain's movements, leaning in towards him; the flickering candlelight accented the deep crevasses of her face.

"That doesn't relieve us of our responsibility to try. I think—I think Einstein was saying that, while a single war can be won by force, it doesn't provide a foundation for enduring peace."

"One might note that your proposal is mildly paradoxical," T'Pol noted. "That only enduring peace can provide the foundation for enduring peace."

"I know, T'Pol, it's just—" Archer leaned back, throwing his hands up in frustration. "All I know is, we can't keep repeating the same cycles we have for the entirety of human history. Sooner or later, we _have _to make a clean break, and right here, right now, we're standing on the precipice of a new era for humanity—if we fall into that same cycle _now_, we'll end up binding ourselves for another millennium."

"And how do you propose to create an enduring peace?" T'Pol asked, her eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"I've been giving a lot of thought to some hints that Daniels dropped—remember him?" T'Pol nodded, affirming that she remembered their crewmember-cum-temporal agent. "He talked about a Federation—some sort of mutual pact between _dozens _of star-faring species. And it wasn't just a defense alliance—it was so much _more_. A coming together of dreams, and ambitions, and hopes…a sharing of friendship, knowledge, mutual service, culture, and morality." Archer listed the concepts as they leapt into his mind, certain that he was missing several.

"That sounds…idealistic," T'Pol countered.

"Maybe," Archer admitted, troubled. "But imagine the possibility: dozens of species, working together, not just to protect their safety, but to promote themselves, to better their conditions, moral, intellectual, and physical…who's to say it isn't possible? That the promised land can't be made real?"

"These are some pretty heady notions you're entertaining, Jonathan," T'Pol answered, her voice cracking again.

"Perhaps," Archer said, leaning forward again. "But even on my own planet, there's precedence. NATO—the North American Treaty Organization—was ostensibly created as a defense alliance. But it managed to bring about a lasting peace between its members—and some of them had been enemies for a thousand years. It set the conditions needed for the European Revival." His hands gestured excitedly. "Maybe we can do the same thing, on a stellar level."

"Do you really think people are ready for this?" T'Pol replied skeptically.

"I don't know," Archer allowed. "But I think—I think we could pick up the Vulcans, and I'm almost certain about the Andorians and the Denobulans. The Tellarites, too."

"No, Jonathan," T'Pol corrected him. "I meant, are _humans _ready for this?"

Archer sat back. "I don't think we have much choice, T'Pol," he answered. "The future is here—we can't pretend anymore that space is safe. I know that some people will have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into this new era." He chuckled mirthlessly. "'I consider it a challenge before all humankind, and I've come through!'"

T'Pol furrowed her brows, not recognizing the reference. "If you're serious about this," she noted, "it's going to take considerable leadership. The races you listed—the humans, Vulcans, Andorians, Tellarites, Denobulans—the only thing they have in common is _you._ They don't know each other, don't trust each other—but they know the _Enterprise_, and they trust its captain. You've made more progress with the Andorians in two years than my people did in centuries." T'Pol watched the captain's reaction closely. "If you truly want to bring about this new era…you'll have to invest your own future in it."

"I think it's worth it," Archer replied softly. "It's funny, you know: when our mission first started, all I cared about was exploring what was 'out there.' I didn't even contemplate astropolitics. I was so—" he shuddered. "So callow. I never thought that my mission would become about what is in here, instead." He patted his chest before falling silent.

Archer allowed a companionable moment to pass as he watched the flickers of flame illuminate the room, and then he stood up slowly. "I have to get back to duty," he said from his feet. "But…thank you, T'Pol. I needed this."

The elderly Vulcan looked up at him, and delicately grabbed a padd. "Take this with you," she said. "You must give this to your science officer. She'll know what it means."

"Of course," Archer acknowledged.

…

"Two," Hoshi answered, navigating the remnants of the mess hall to find an empty table. "A boy and a girl: Toru and Yoshiko."

"Not bad," Travis replied. "Who's the father?"

"I don't know," Hoshi admitted. "It was probably in their database, but I didn't look it up." Truth be known, it had been a difficult decision for her to look up any children; Hoshi didn't want to confound her life by knowing the name of her future paramour. _Just think, if I work with him…watching him, wondering who's going to make the first move, how it's going to happen, what we have in common, whether or not we'll be happy…how we choose the kids' names…_No, she had enough to worry about, especially with some of the other revelations she had discovered in the data banks of the future _Enterprise. There's a lot of wisdom, _she thought, _in not knowing the future._

Finding an empty table, the two junior officers sat down; Hoshi pulled out a chair, and Travis picked one up off the deck. "Why not?" Travis asked, curious. "You've got to be wondering."

"I am," Hoshi replied, "but I think it's better left a mystery. How about you? Did you get married?"

"Yep." Travis' face was a mixture of pride and bafflement. "Get this: Corporal McKenzie."

Hoshi laughed. "A MACO? Seriously?" Travis nodded in affirmation. "How well do you know her?"

"I know her face!" Travis responded lightly. "We talked after a training session once—I'm not sure if she even remembers it. Other than that—I finally learned what her name is!"

"Yeah?" Hoshi said teasingly. "You're practically married already! When are you going to ask her out?"

Travis scratched his head in melodramatic perplexity. "As soon as I find her!" he responded, grinning. "Now that I know she's the one, what's the point of waiting?"

_It feels good to laugh again, _Hoshi thought. "What about a family? Any kids?"

"Nah," Travis answered. "Turns out I was a little to busy. Get this." He glanced around and leaned forward in mock furtiveness. "I eventually become first officer!"

The comment jarred Hoshi, but she did her best to mask it. "Congratulations, Travis!" she replied. "Or do I have to address you as 'sir'?"

Travis grinned broadly. "I think 'commander' might be—hey, Lieutenant!" he spoke loudly, noticing Malcolm searching the mess hall for a free seat. "There's room over here!"

"Only if I'm not interrupting anything," Malcolm replied hesitantly, appearing beside them with a ration pack.

"No, sir, have a seat!" Hoshi added.

"It's good to see you out of sickbay, sir," Travis commented as Malcolm picked up an empty chair, stabilizing it cautiously. "Are you feeling better?"

Malcolm's face was clenched in a tight expression. "I'd rather not talk about it, Ensign," he replied, with a little extra stress on Mayweather's rank. Travis sat back, a little surprised, and focused on his protein bar.

"So, Lieutenant," Hoshi intervened quickly. "Who'd you end up with? On the future _Enterprise_, I mean," she said in response to his puzzled look. "Did you get married, have kids? Do you know who the lucky lady is?" she said with a teasing smile.

"No," Malcolm replied, not sharing in the jesting fun. "Actually, I didn't. Apparently the Reed family line came to a rather abrupt end." He sliced open his chicken dumplings, unwilling to look at Hoshi.

Sato swallowed hard, scrambling for an appropriate response. At least she knew why Malcolm looked so glum. "Women only make up a third of the crew," she answered, hoping to cheer him up. "There were bound to be a few bachelors left over."

"That's not it, Ensign," Reed said quietly. "Turns out I don't live long enough."

"Oh." Hoshi felt her heart fall inside.

"I'm on duty in a few minutes," Travis said, uncomfortable in the weighted silence. "It was nice talking to you, sir." Mayweather stood up to leave.

"Me too," Hoshi added. She wasn't proud about cutting and running, but it didn't take a trained psychiatrist to discern that Lieutenant Reed needed some time to himself. "See you later, sir," she finished, and the two junior officers departed.

Malcolm stared hard at the dumplings, poking them with his plasticine fork. _It just…isn't fair,_ he thought morosely.

…

"Commander?" Hoshi asked tentatively, sticking her head through the doorway. The future version of T'Pol hadn't verbally answered the door summons, but the hatchway had slid open, allowing Hoshi entrance into the softly lit room. She glanced through the opening, unsure of whether she should enter.

"It's just T'Pol," a crackly voice answered, biding Hoshi to come in. Sato took a step forward, peering around the corner, and jumped back, startled.

"I'm sorry, Commander," she apologized. "It's just—I was expecting—"

"I'm not as virile as I used to be," the withered Vulcan said in understanding. Indeed, while T'Pol had always bore a slender, lithesome figure, the ravages of time—age, Pa'nar Syndrome, and trellium use—had taken their toll, leaving behind a shrunken, shriveled person. Nonetheless, T'Pol still carried herself with a firm grace that belied her years; Hoshi could feel the inner strength emanating from the older woman. "And I told you, call me T'Pol," the Vulcan said, waving a finger at Hoshi.

"Of course…T'Pol. I'm sorry about my—" Hoshi tried apologizing again, but was cut off by the waving finger.

"You seem to forget that I'm still a Vulcan, Hoshi. I do not take offense."

"Of course," Hoshi repeated, silently berating herself. "It's late. Maybe I should come back—"

"Horse hockey," T'Pol replied flatly, forcing Hoshi to shake her head in puzzlement. "I've been told that it's a human expression, analogous to calling something 'nonsense,'" T'Pol explained. "Why don't you have a seat?"

Without a word, Hoshi pulled up a chair and sat down, looking around the small quarters with interest. She couldn't remember ever seeing a room on the _Enterprise_that was so…warm. The straight, utilitarian lines she was accustomed to were muted by the understated candles, and the drab, metallic gray bulkheads were softened with rich tapestries and geometric art.

"I-I was wondering something," Hoshi began, uncertain of herself. She had never been good at expressing her inner thoughts, and T'Pol—in any time frame—was an intimidating person.

T'Pol responded with a ghost of a smile, momentarily shocking Hoshi. "You clearly came here for a reason," the Vulcan replied. "What can I do for you, Hoshi?"

_Here goes nothing, _Hoshi decided. "I had a question about—about my future self."

T'Pol waited expectantly.

"Your databanks say that I stayed as part of the official crew for another twenty years, and then resigned my commission to teach the crew's children."

T'Pol stayed silent.

_Okay, _Hoshi thought. "When I resigned, I was still an ensign. Which didn't really bother me. I mean, I've never been that interested in command or anything. But then Travis mentioned that he became first officer, and…" she trailed off uncertainly.

"You're wondering why you were never promoted," T'Pol finished the thought.

"Yeah," Hoshi replied simply. "Do you—do you know why?"

T'Pol shrugged. "Is it fair to compare yourself to Mr. Mayweather?" she asked, her voice cracking again. "Did it bother you before you learned about his promotions?"

"Well, no, it didn't," Hoshi answered reluctantly.

"Then it is illogical to let it bother you now," T'Pol answered firmly. "You did not join the crew as part of the command track; Mr. Mayweather did. Your accomplishments were different—no better, no worse, just different."

"I know, T'Pol, but…" Hoshi sighed miserably. "It's just that I—well, I feel like I'm not contributing anything to this mission," she finished. "It's like, I'm just kinda _here_, watching the people around me doing everything."

"Would the _Enterprise_have made it this far without your linguistical abilities?" T'Pol queried gently.

"I suppose not," Hoshi answered slowly. "But I look around me, and…everyone else is putting themselves through hell and back. Except for Travis," she added wryly. "He seems to be thriving on it. But me—it's like I'm here, but not in any significant sense…like I'm a bit character in a play, you know?" she asked doubtfully, certain that she was failing to express herself.

"Perhaps if you told me why you feel this way," T'Pol suggested. A notion was already forming in her mind.

"Well…I feel like I'm not doing anything to impact the mission," Hoshi answered, chewing on her lip. "I mean, I'm doing stuff, but it's always at someone else's order—I guess, I'm not making any choices or any decisions that matter! It's like all I do is act at the random whim of others! And I don't mean that I follow orders from my superior officers—I mean, look at my record in the Expanse! The Loque'eque virus turns me into an alien; Tarquin took me prisoner, and I had to be rescued; and that's it, T'Pol! _I _haven't done anything, of my own free will! I'm stuck in the background, and when I show up, it's because someone _else_ is exercising control over me! Meanwhile, everyone around me—they're out, seizing the day, making differences, making important decisions! Is this all that my career will ever amount to? Insignificance?" She shuddered. "If life is nothing more than a poor player, I seem to be poorer than most."

Hoshi shuddered again, and continued. "And then we come to learn that our future is already written for us! How can we compete with that? It's like we're just going through motions that were already decided _for _us! It's like—it's almost like we're stuck in some cosmic play, but we never got the message, so we're stuck here, futilely raging against a script that's already been written! And _I'm _not even doing that much!" Hoshi finished wildly, realizing that she was on her feet and gesturing frantically. Wincing, she sat back down, embarrassed by her outburst.

T'Pol was unperturbed. "I have had over a century to meditate on fate," she said, her voice exuding an inner calm. "I have discovered one truth: it is rarely as linear as people presume."

"What do you mean?" Hoshi asked.

"Fate does not determine free will, nor the reverse; instead, they interact in a dance, constantly changing each other. The future may be written, but is not set in stone. Time itself is impermanent, Hoshi, always subject to change: by exercising our free will, we can _change _the future."

"So…the future we've seen on board your _Enterprise…_"

"Think of it…as one of many possibilities," T'Pol answered. "If the cosmos is truly nothing more than a stage, and we are actors strutting our hour, then we are unique, for we are actors who write the finale ourselves."

"But if we complete the mission this time…and don't get thrown back…" Hoshi struggled to put together her thoughts. "Won't you cease to exist?"

T'Pol replied with another faint smile. "Corporeal existence is nothing more than a collection of probabilities, Ensign. If you want my advice—" T'Pol leaned forward, taking Hoshi's hand in her own. "You'll have plenty of time in the future to understand the paradoxes of existence. Why don't you focus on making the most of your opportunities, in the here and now?"

"But how do I do that?" Hoshi whispered, feeling the hardened, cracked epidermis around her own soft skin.

"People are capable of shaping their own destiny, Hoshi," T'Pol answered, just as quietly. "It is not always easy: it takes an iron will to overcome the circumstances that seek to determine the course of our lives for us, but life is far more complex and fascinating than a simple, mechanistic relation. You have it within you to seize control of your life."

"But how do I do that?"

"Identify and act, Hoshi," T'Pol answered, emphasizing the simplicity. "Identify and act. In doing so, you will unleash your own potential, and find yourself living a fuller, more meaningful life. Transforming the world around you—that is the concrete application of your humanity. You have the unique ability to transcend your current circumstances, act anew with vigor and faith, and sometimes it's just a matter of _doing it._"

Hoshi remained quiet, as her mind grappled with the possibilities, until she finally spoke up doubtfully. "I'm not sure I completely understand," she said slowly. "But if fate has relegated me to being a secondary character in life—I still have the ability to change that."

"Yes, Ensign," T'Pol replied. "But the impetus must come from you—no one else can do it for you."

Hoshi nodded, then stood up jerkily. "Thanks, T'Pol," she said softly. "I needed to hear that. I think I'm going to get some rest now."

The elderly T'Pol gave another perplexing smile. "Of course, Ensign. If there's anything else, don't hesitate to stop by."

…

**Feb. 9, 2154**

Captain Archer watched his science officer closely. She had been back on limited duty for a couple days now, and thus far had seemed to…_thrive is a little to strong, _he thought. _But endure is a little too weak. What's in-between? Tolerate? _Her body showed little of the seizure-like twitches that had begun to overwhelm her prior to her collapse, although she was still a long ways from recovering the poise characteristic of her people; her face maintained an expressionless mien, but her voice betrayed her inner state, fluctuating with unease and uncertainty.

"She thinks that Lorian's plan won't work," T'Pol was saying, looking at the captain square in the chin. "T'Pol—she—I—found a discrepancy in his calculations. It took her several years, but once I knew where to look, I was able to verify it."

"Why hasn't she told Lorian?" Archer asked delicately, trying to minimize the strain on his contemporary version of the Vulcan.

"She says she has—several times," T'Pol told the captain. "Lorian has rejected her analysis."

"Yet you think she's correct," Archer parroted the earlier statement.

"Yes, captain. It appears as though—" T'Pol halted for a moment in the equivalent of a mental hiccup. "It appears as though Lorian's dedication to his mission is blinding his better judgment. A very _human _problem," she added, pointedly.

"Well, I can say this about you, T'Pol," Archer replied, taking the opprobrium in stride. "You sure haven't changed. What's the problem with the calculations?" he added hurriedly, before they sidetracked too far.

"The refinements to the plasma injectors are insufficient," T'Pol told him. "If we exceed warp five-point-six, the injectors will overload, and initiate a meltdown in the intermix chamber. We'd be destroyed."

"That is a problem," Archer said. The severity of the news was tempered by his joy at having T'Pol back. "Have you shown the figures to Trip?"

"Yes, sir," T'Pol confirmed. "He agrees with the assessment."

_Damnit_, Archer swore mentally. Fate had gift-dropped a promising solution in his lap, and then yanked it back, leaving him with—_nothing_, he realized. _Absolutely nothing_. _There must be a solution. There MUST. But where?_ He shook his head wearily, trying to clear the instant clutter of cobwebs. _If we go around, we'll never get to the rendezvous on time; if we go forward, we'll get thrown a century back in time. Is this what we've come to? Is this as far as we're going to get?_

"We'll have to contact Degra," Archer said, melancholically. "Tell him we won't be able to make the rendezvous." _And there goes our chance at stopping the weapon._

"There is an alternative," T'Pol spoke softly, her words barely carrying across the ready room. "We could go through the subspace corridor."

Archer looked at her with surprise. _Is her mind slipping that badly?_ "We already ruled that out, didn't we? We'd be thrown back in time."

"Not necessarily," T'Pol answered. "She—I—my future counterpart spent many years re-examining their sensor logs from the original passage. The time disruption was triggered by our impulse manifolds. She believes that we can reconfigure the manifolds in such a way as to prevent the corridor from destabilizing." T'Pol handed Archer a padd containing the proposed schematics.

Archer glanced at the diagrams. "How long will it take to make the changes?"

"About twelve hours."

"Make the changes," Archer decided. "I'll let Lorian know about our change in plans."

…

"Commander?" Malcolm asked cautiously, poking his head through the opened doorway. The hatch had slid open at his arrival, but he heard no sounds from within.

For someone accustomed to the utilitarian designs of military vessels, the interior décor was striking, and vaguely unsettling. Decorated more to set the mind at ease, the soft candles and recessed lighting had the opposite effect on Malcolm; it put him on edge, as if it were a trap designed to lull him into complacency.

"Lieutenant Reed." The voice emerged from beneath a pile of blankets, tented on the drab carpeting. "Please join me."

Without any better ideas, Malcolm crossed the small room and gingerly lowered himself in front of the voice. The blankets pushed back to reveal an aged, withered Vulcan. "How are you feeling, Malcolm?" T'Pol asked quietly, her voice creaky.

"I-I…I'm ready to return to normal duty," he answered hesitantly. "There's still some soreness and aches, but nothing major."

T'Pol gave a faint smile, causing Malcolm to stare closely, unsure if he had really seen it. "That's good news," she replied. "Since I'm not a physician, I was hoping you hadn't come to me with physical ailments."

"Er…yes," Malcolm stammered. "I mean, no, of course not. Maybe I should leave you to your meditations." He stood to leave.

"Sit down, Malcolm," T'Pol replied commandingly, and Reed dropped back to the carpet. "Your body may be recovering, but something is troubling your mind. I can see it in your face."

"Yes, Commander. It's just—well…"

"Call me T'Pol, Malcolm. I haven't held a commission in many years."

"Of course…T'Pol. It's just that…well, I want to know how I died. How I will die," he rushed in, and the words poured out.

"Ah," T'Pol replied, nodding slowly. "I see. Does it matter?"

"Does what matter?"

"Does it matter how you died?"

"Of course it does," Malcolm answered, baffled by the question. "If I died, I hope that it was nobly, at least."

"Death is death, Malcolm," T'Pol answered. "The manner and the circumstances make no difference: you are no less dead." She pushed the blankets off her head, freeing her short, silvery hair.

"Death is eternal, isn't it?" Malcolm's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's just a man failing to reappear, that's all — now you see him, now you don't, that's the only thing that's real: here one minute and gone the next and never coming back — an exit, unobtrusive and unannounced, a disappearance gathering weight as it goes on, until, finally, it is heavy with death," he quoted, pulling the words from his memory.[1]

"Why is this bothering you _now_, Malcolm?" T'Pol asked, her face unreadable. "This isn't the first time you have faced the certainty of your own death."

"I don't know," Malcolm admitted. His body rocked slightly with nervous tension. "The idea of death is nothing new—hell, I suspect we're all _born _with an intuition of our mortality."

"So why now?" T'Pol pressed gently.

"The devil of it is, the more I think about it, the less I know," Malcolm answered, his face blanketed with confusion. "I guess I always assumed my death would be meaningful—noble, somehow, and important. But this time, I don't know that."

"Would it set your mind at ease if I told you?"

"No, it wouldn't." He paused for a lengthy moment. "Maybe I'm just going crazy, being off-duty. I'm not contributing anything to this mission. Oh, shit—" he whispered, catching the double meaning of his words.

"You want your death to be meaningful, because you feel as though your duty hasn't been." T'Pol said the words for him.

"I feel like—like the poor player who struts and frets during his fifteen minutes, and then returns to the background," Malcolm replied slowly. "It's like I'm always there, but I'm not _doing _anything—at least, nothing that couldn't be done by someone else. The only thing substantive that I've done is pick a juvenile fight with Major Hayes."

"You may be shortchanging yourself, Malcolm," T'Pol replied. "I suspect that, if you reflect on your performance, you'll realize that _no one _could have performed your duties to the same level of excellence."

"That would make a great epitaph," Malcolm snorted bitterly. "'Here lies Malcolm Reed: he did his duty.'"

"You have often spoken of your own military heritage," T'Pol remarked. She leaned in slightly, taking one of Malcolm's hands in her own withered palms. "You know that successfully completing a mission requires a large group of people, each doing their individual, precise part. Someone has to do the work that doesn't receive the attention, and I personally find those people to be far nobler: they are giving of themselves purely for the mission, and not for any sense of the applause of men."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Malcolm replied, raising an eyebrow. It was not what he had expected, to say the least.

"In time," T'Pol answered, holding Malcolm's hand tight. "In time."

"Yeah, but…how much time do I have?" Reed rejoined. "I mean, I saw the data file: I die in two weeks!"

"Now that you know, I suspect you'll find a way to prevent your death," T'Pol replied. "I have learned that temporal mechanics are far more malleable than the theorists claim."

"So what's been done, _can _be undone," Malcolm chuckled softly. "Tell me, Commander: in this other timeline of yours…do Commander Tucker and I regain our friendship before I die?"

"No," T'Pol answered simply. "The future you indicated that time was needed, but there wasn't enough."

It hit Malcolm like a load of bricks: for all his anger at Trip, he had assumed that the two of them would eventually reconcile. The notion that he might die without ever setting things straight—"What can I do about it?" he asked, whispering.

"You must decide," T'Pol answered. "Which is more important: your friendship or your pride?"

…

Archer didn't know whether or not to be surprised by the changes to the captain's ready room. Where it was had been utilitarian and sleek, lacking in decoration (other than the graphite sketches of the _Enterprise_'s namesakes), the décor had changed along with the rest of the ship: the function-bound design they had carried from spacedock had gradually been replaced by a warmer, softer touch more characteristic of a home. While the bridge itself still maintained the familiar Starfleet look, the ready room now bore the softer lighting, personal knick-knacks, and several leafy plants that reflected the room's master.

But it paled in Archer's mind. "You should have told me," he snarled furiously, extending a padd out to Lorian. "If we rely on your alterations, my ship could be destroyed!"

"My mother overreacted to the numbers," Lorian retorted firmly. "Her judgment never recovered from the Pa'nar Syndrome. There's only a twenty-two percent chance of an overload."

Archer grabbed Lorian's arm as the human-Vulcan hybrid tried to turn away. "I'd call that a damn big risk!" Archer replied angrily. "Just when were you planning to tell me about it?"

"Captain, there's no alternative," Lorian responded gruffly. "You might not be comfortable with the odds, but they _are _favorable. And they offer the best chance of reaching your rendezvous with Degra on time."

"What about the corridor?" Archer demanded. "If we travel through it—"

"You'll be thrown into the past if you try to use the corridor," Lorian stared at Archer, disbelieving. "The odds of that are one hundred percent—we know, because _it's already happened!_"

"I have two T'Pols who disagree with you!" Archer shot back.

"What, the renovations to your manifolds? Yes, I know about that theory, captain. We've weighed it, and it _won't work!_" Lorian's own temper began to rise. "What _I _know, from our actual experience, is that the Kovaalans will attack the _Enterprise_the moment it enters the nebula—and the odds of them damaging the impulse manifolds are substantially higher than twenty-two percent! And if they do, the corridor will destabilize again, throwing you back in time!"

"It represents our best option!" Archer bellowed. "Yes, I heard your odds—you think the danger is higher than twenty-two percent. But you don't get that it's not a matter of odds! I trust my crew—we'll find a way to get to the corridor with our manifolds intact!"

"Have you lost your reason, captain?" Lorian snapped. "You have to listen to me—we have weighed the odds of success, and our plan offers your best chance!"

"I didn't come over here for a debate, Lorian," Archer bit back. "This is my mission, and my decision."

"If that's your reasoning, no wonder you failed!" Archer replied with a deadly stare. "Besides, this is as much my mission as yours," Lorian retorted. "Perhaps more—I've devoted my life to it."

"My _Enterprise_is under _my _command, and I've already given the order." Archer gritted his teeth, trying to calm his temper. "Trip's short-handed in engineering. If you could spare a few people, he'd get the work done faster."

"You shouldn't have spoken to Archer!" Lorian bellowed, his iron self-discipline breaking down completely. "You're throwing our entire mission into doubt!"

"He had the right to know the risks," the elderly T'Pol countered. "Did you really expect him to simply accept _your _word and _your _judgment, rather than making his own assessment? You should have told him the entire truth from the start."

"If they use that corridor, their mission will fail," Lorian snarled self-righteously. "Earth will be destroyed."

"Your pride is interfering with your logic, son," T'Pol answered calmly. "If they use the corridor, the worst-case scenario is that they're thrown back in time—and these events occur again, but _with _the added knowledge that we've put together."

"But I've already compared the odds!" Lorian insisted furiously. "I've had _years _to study these plans! I _know _what is best, but Archer won't _listen_!"

"You're allowing your human side to get the better of you," T'Pol replied.

"You know nothing about being human!" Lorian retorted. "You know _nothing _about the struggles I have had to endure! You know nothing about being born with all of the emotions, and none of the control!"

Gingerly, T'Pol rose to her feet, grasping her son's robes for balance. "I know that guilt can be a powerful motivator for humans," she said, waving a finger in front of Lorian. "I know about the guilt you have harbored. Don't let it cloud your judgment—especially not now."

"This isn't about my _guilt_, Mother," Lorian growled. "This is about saving Earth—something which doesn't concern you. If Archer is going to press my hand, then I have no choice but to take action."

The _Enterprise_, despite being the largest ship in Earth's fleet, was still a relatively small vessel, and the battle damage had further shrunken the habitable portions of the starship. There was enough room for the crew to live; but there was not enough room for other concerns, such as trying to avoid encountering a crewmate.

Freak coincidences are a fact of life, and Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker rounded the same corner at the same instant, nearly running into each other. Both took a step back, fumbling for words, awkwardly gesturing for the other to go ahead.

Finally, Malcolm sighed. "This is ridiculous," he said. "We've been avoiding each other for days."

"Listen, Malcolm—Lieutenant—I—" Trip stuttered, trying to find the right words. He wrung his hands in discomfort.

"It's okay…Trip," Malcolm answered. "You know what? It's not important. We're friends, right?"

Trip looked at the shorter man disbelievingly. This was definitely not what he had expected. "I nearly got you killed, Malcolm!"

Malcolm sighed loudly. "Yeah, but…well, life's too short to carry grudges, isn't it?"

Trip's face split into a relieved grin. "Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you."

…

"Travis, I'm not going to tell you anything more about the future," T'Pol said, handing the young man a cup of tea. "You know too much already."

Travis' right leg was bouncing up and down. "I don't want to know much, Commander," he said eagerly. "But since I'm going to marry Corporal Mackenzie anyway, I figured I may as well get started—and where better to start than finding out what worked the last time?"

"It's just T'Pol," the elderly lady said slowly. "Just call me T'Pol. Tell me, Travis: what does she look like?"

"What?" Travis answered, frowning.

"What does Corporal Mackenzie look like?" T'Pol repeated.

"No," Travis replied, confused. "Why?"

"Oh, I'm just curious," T'Pol said quietly. "You seem to be handling this mission much different than the others."

"Yeah, I've heard that," Travis noted. "To tell you the truth, I think Commander Tucker's pissed at me. He thinks I'm enjoying it too much."

"Are you?" T'Pol asked directly.

Travis leaned forward intently. "I don't think so," he said. "I mean, I know the stakes, and yes, seven million people have already died," he allowed. "But neither of those is going to change based on how I handle our mission, right? I mean, if I get depressed and moody, it's not going to bring anyone back to life. That doesn't make me a crappy person, does it?"

"No," T'Pol answered. Her voice took on a slight lilt. "Although it may make you Vulcan."

"I—oh, I see what you're saying. People think I'm indifferent to the human cost."

"That's one possibility," T'Pol answered.

"But I'm not, Commander—sorry, T'Pol." Travis smiled at his verbal slip-up. "I'm not indifferent to it; I just don't see how dwelling on it helps. If we let ourselves get lost in self-pity, then…well, then we're never going to move forward."

T'Pol gave him a soft smile in response.

…

"_We'll_ meet with Degra," Lorian snarled as he paced around the command center. A century later, its purpose and function remained the same: harboring the most advanced computers aboard the ship, it was used for tactical assessments, mission planning, and making tough decisions. It fit Lorian's mood perfectly. "I'll speak to the Xindi Council," he declared firmly. "I've had plenty of time to prepare our arguments."

"Degra's not expecting us," Karyn replied, a bit in shock. She was accustomed to Lorian's brusque demeanor, but this was cold, even for him. "He's liable to blow us out of the sky!"

"Archer's following the same course of action he did before," Lorian retorted. "The same _flawed _course of action. He's not going to make the rendezvous."

"But their plan could work!" Karyn replied. "They can upgrade their impulse manifolds to survive the trip through the corridor!"

"They'd never make it _to _the corridor intact!" Lorian scowled. "He thinks that just because he knows the Kovaalans are coming, he can somehow prevent their attack! But we know better—the odds support following our plan instead."

"Aren't you willing to at least give them the chance?" Karyn asked, pleading.

"There are billions of lives at stake!" Lorian said, glaring at his first officer. He expected her support. "We can't just sit here and hope he succeeds, especially knowing the odds as we do!"

"But these are humans!" Karyn insisted furiously. "If we've learned anything in the Expanse, it's that humans have a unique ability to defy the odds!"

"Do you really think that hopeful thinking is going to change the fabric of reality?" Lorian replied scornfully. "It's not. Now we have a mission to carry out, and we're going to do it!"

Their chief engineer, a human named Greer, spoke up doubtfully. "How are we supposed to reach Degra?" he asked. "We can't modify our own injectors to sustain warp six. They're too old."

"We're going to use the injectors from Archer's ship," Lorian declared.

"Do you expect him to simply give them to us?" Karyn replied, perplexed.

"No." Lorian's stare expressed the steel resolve he felt inside. He had a duty, and he would see it through, no matter what it took.

"You're going to steal them?" Karyn retorted in disbelief.

"It's no different than what they did to the Illyrians," Lorian shot back. "And Archer has forfeited his privilege to command this mission."

"Their warp drive will be disabled!" Greer countered, taking a second longer to grasp Lorian's proposal.

"My father's a resourceful engineer," Lorian responded firmly. "He'll be able to fabricate new injectors. And if he can't—they're a small price to pay for saving humanity."

"You're asking me to betray Jonathan Archer!" Karyn said, her eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Forget for the moment that he's the one who _gave _us our sacred mission—he's also my great-grandfather!"

"There's a reason why I'm in command of the _Enterprise_, Karyn," Lorian answered strongly. "It's because humans are too weak to make the hard decisions. It takes cold logic, which only I have in abundance. Don't let your feelings drag down your judgment, or at least trust mine."

"But—it doesn't feel right."

"I don't care about what is _right_, Karyn. We're well past that point. Now, it's a matter of what is necessary." Lorian paused, seeing that Karyn needed more convincing. "I know this won't be easy, but we've had to make difficult choices before. Our parents and grandparents lived and died aboard this ship, all to bring us to this point: so that we would be able to stop the Xindi. The last hundred years are coming to fruition, here and now, and we can't shy away at the critical moment. This is _our _time, and this is what _we _have spent our lives preparing for. If Earth is going to survive, _we _have to act. Are you with me?"

Karyn nodded mutely.

…

Trip Tucker steeled himself as he walked towards the engineering annex. He knew that T'Pol, still on light duty, was working in the alcove, trying to bring the secondary sensor relays back on line; and things had been strained between the two of them since—_since we slept together, _Trip admitted. The intimacy of their one-night stand had been brushed off the next morning by T'Pol, who claimed that it was nothing more than 'scientific exploration of another species' mating rituals,' but since then, their once-close friendship had been awkward and irritable, descending into bickering and antagonistic sparing. And neither of them had cleared the air regarding the _second _elephant in the room: their respective psychological spirals into substance abuse.

"Have you spent any time talking to Lorian?" Trip asked, choosing what he hoped was a safe topic. The discomfort in the air was palpable as he opened a wall panel to inspect a power shunt.

"Not really," T'Pol replied. Her attention was either caught up in her work, _or she's doing a good job of faking it,_ Trip thought.

"You should," he answered, returning T'Pol's studious non-look. "He seems like a good kid. And you are his mother, after all." Trip yanked a hand back to avoid a spark.

"He's hardly a kid," T'Pol answered, refusing to turn and look at Tucker. "He's more than a hundred years old—far older than you." _And far more grown-up, _she added mentally.

Trip laughed hollowly. "Only in the Expanse could I have a son who's nearly three times my age," he observed with false blithe. He watched T'Pol from the corner of his eye, but saw no response. "Who would've thought you and me, huh?" he went on. "Lorian says we're going to be married in a traditional Vulcan ceremony. It's going to take me weeks to learn to pronounce the vows."

"I'm surprised you could learn at all," T'Pol answered, still giving no indication of attention.

Trip shot her a dirty glare. "You know where we're going to have our honeymoon?" he continued. "Cargo bay three. Lorian says I'll fill it up with sand that we dug up from a passing asteroid. He says that I even manufacture a palm tree."

T'Pol flung her tool to the deck plate in disgust. "Lorian says this, Lorian says that!" she said mockingly, finally turning to look at the engineer. "It's ridiculous to assume those events are going to happen! But I guess I should've expected it from you—you'd grasp at any hint that you might get me back to your bed!"

_Take a deep breath, _Trip told himself. He noticed that T'Pol had magically moved to within a foot in front of him, and the small Vulcan was staring up angrily. "Hold on, T'Pol," he said, not convincing himself to calm down. "I'm just curious about how you and I are supposed to end up together!"

"The fact that our counterparts married doesn't mean that we'll do the same!" T'Pol retorted.

_Hold on. Don't let her get under your skin. Count to_—"You're afraid to admit that you'll have feelings for me!" Trip shouted. "That you have them already!"

Pivoting away from Trip, T'Pol threw her hands up in an exaggerated form of the human gesture of frustration. "I should've known it was a mistake!" she replied angrily. "I thought you could handle it—but of all the humans I've met, I think you're the _least _able to!"

"Would you care to tell me what the hell you're talking about?" Trip flared back.

Taking a few short steps away, T'Pol pivoted again to glare at Tucker. "Exploring human sexuality with you. You're obviously unable to have a physical relationship with me without developing an emotional attachment."

"_What_?" Trip couldn't believe himself. "You think _I'm _the one with the problem? I got news for you, T'Pol: you're not that special! Oh, I know you like to think of yourself as this high-and-mighty Vulcan, so superior to us common humans who you deign to spend a little attention on, but guess what? You're pretty damned full of yourself, T'Pol!"

He was on a roll now. "You're no more special than anyone else on this ship! And the idea that I can't _help_ but form an emotional attachment to you—you weren't that good!"

"Observe his primitive male ego flailing for defense," T'Pol observed in mock scientific tones. "When his emotional maturity is threatened, he feels the need to respond by attacking another's sexual prowess."

Burning, Trip whipped his flux coupler across the annex, where it rattled to a stop amid a cluster of machinery. "You know, all the other women on board must have been taken, because I can't imagine any other reason why I would have married you!" he shouted. "And on second thought, I should have stayed a bachelor!" Tucker's look grew colder. "Why don't you finish up here by yourself. I have better ways of spending my time."

…

Even the lighting in sickbay had been powered down in the effort to salvage as many crucial systems as possible. It caused few problems for Phlox; Denobulans have excellent vision in the dark, but he knew that the subdued lighting was causing problems for his human medics. At the same time, it was helping his human patients rest; _you win some and you lose some,_ the physician thought wryly.

He was checking a blood test when the doors of sickbay slid open. He was a little shocked to see T'Pol enter, and his mind shot to attention, wondering what the problem was; then it dawned on him that _he _had missed their last scheduled check-up. He rubbed his face briskly, trying to increase the blood flow; Denobulans required far less rest than humans, and it wasn't like him to forget appointments due to simple exhaustion.

"You're busy," T'Pol said abruptly, and promptly turned to leave. "I'll come back."

"No, no, Commander, come in," Phlox said, waving the Vulcan into sickbay. "Have a—" he glanced around at the occupied biobeds, until his gaze fell on the console chair. "Have a seat," he finished, gesturing to it. "I apologize for missing your appointment."

"You clearly had more important matters to attend to," T'Pol replied flatly as she took the proffered seat.

"You know better than that, Commander," Phlox said with a slight _tsk_. "Every patient is important. I'll have to use a hand scanner, although. The imaging chamber is offline again."

"I am not—current as to the repair schedule," T'Pol said hesitantly, sitting immobile while Phlox ran his scanner over her.

"I had a repair crew down here, but Commander Tucker reassigned them," Phlox commented, trying to keep T'Pol at ease with conversation. "He said the armory was a higher priority." Phlox chuckled. "We'll see how low a priority I am the next time he burns his fingers on a plasma conduit. Have you experienced any further withdrawal symptoms?"

"None," T'Pol answered.

"I'm only detecting trace amounts of trellium metabolites in your bloodstream," Phlox commented. "I could do a spinal fluid analysis, but I think it's hardly necessary. The levels in your blood are hardly worth mentioning." He couldn't help but notice T'Pol's unease. "That's good news." When he didn't get a response, he probed a little deeper. "What's bothering you?"

"My…emotions," she answered, stammering a bit. "They are growing more difficult to control. I thought…once I got the trellium out of my system, it would get easier, but my usual techniques for suppressing them haven't been effective."

Sighing, Phlox pulled up another chair and sat down beside T'Pol. "Has something happened to aggravate your condition?"

"Yes, Doctor," she replied softly, but showed no interest in going into detail.

"Your mind learned to use trellium as a crutch, T'Pol. The drug was doing all the work, so your natural skills atrophied. It's not surprising that you're struggling to cope with its absence. On Earth, there is a cautionary tale involving a creature called 'Humpty Dumpty.' Once something is broken, it's extremely hard to repair it."

T'Pol looked at the doctor with alarm. "Are you saying that these emotions may never subside?"

"You used trellium for three months," Phlox said in his gentlest tone. "It caused significant damage to your neural pathways—with time, you will see some improvement, but the chances are that you'll never fully recover." He hesitated as he saw T'Pol's lip quiver. "You may have to learn how to live with these emotions."

…

Fortune smiles on fools, small children, and starships named _Enterprise._ While Trip was burning off his anger outside of engineering, the attack from their future counterparts began.

At first, it ran as smoothly as planned; Lorian's crew beamed a collection of gas grenades into main engineering, anesthetizing the engineering crew before they had a chance to respond. Injected with counteragents, the boarding party then transported over, quickly taking control of the engineering chamber.

They arrived to find the crew knocked out, resting somnambulantly on the deck plating. Lorian rapidly repeated his orders, making some minute adjustments to the plan; and as two of the boarders gathered the unconscious bodies, Lorian crossed to the injector assembly, bearing a look of cold determination on his face.

Lorian input the access codes that he had 'observed' his father using earlier, and the wall paneling released with a soft hiss, granting him access to the all-important equipment inside. He raised his scanner, and swearing internally, he cross-checked the readings.

"Greer!" Lorian called out, flipping open his communicator. "I'm still reading an active plasma flow in the injectors!"

"It's taking more time than we thought to reroute the plasma," his engineer answered over the comm line. Stand by—we'll have it in a minute." While the injectors could be removed without redirecting the plasma, their goal was _not _to destroy the ship. At the same time, their plan called for quickness, and the seconds ticking away grated on Lorian's nerves. Every second was another opportunity for someone to discover his boarding party.

Lorian's head jerked up and around as he heard the clash of metals from a shadowy corner. The primary hatchway swung open.

Lorian's security contingent reacted instantly—too quickly, in fact. They stunned the first person crossing the threshold, giving the second person a warning and an opening to jump backwards, back into the outside corridor.

"Tucker to the bridge!" Trip hollered, slamming a fist against a wall-mounted comm panel. "Intruders in engineering! I repeat—" He got no further before Lorian's team made it to the threshold of the hatch, and a phaser blast knocked Trip into unconsciousness.

"Lorian to Greer!" the commander hollered through his own comm system. "We're out of time!"

"We're clear to go!" The response came through a moment later. "The flow's been diverted!"

Without hesitation, Lorian flipped off the secured belts on the injectors, and pulled each one out as quickly as he dared, handing them to the other members of his party. "Let's go!" he urged them furiously, and within moments, the boarding team disappeared back into space.

…

"What the hell?" Archer shot to his feet the second he heard Trip's alert. "Archer to engineering," he called out, hoping it was a false alarm. But no answer came. "Trip, respond!" Archer called out, more loudly this time, but there was no answer. "Rahimi, dispatch a security team!"

"Captain, we have a problem!" Travis added, jacking up the level of alarm on the bridge. He ran his controls twice, but came up with the same results. "The warp engines just went offline. It looks like the plasma injectors are disengaged."

Dozens of possibilities ran through Archer's mind, but there were two salient facts which directed his conclusion: _Intruders in engineering. Plasma injectors disengaged. Could they have been removed completely? Who would want—?_

"Status of our counterpart, Hoshi?" Archer asked brusquely, turning his attention to Ensign Sato.

"Captain, they're disengaging the docking clamps!" Hoshi reported, her own voice rising in volume. "They're trying to break away—they've undocked, sir!" Her fingers flew over the computer panels as the information flowed in to her station.

"Hail them!" Archer ordered.

Hoshi's attempts were met with silence. "No response," she reported, moments later.

The captain didn't have time to review his tactical options before the next report came in. "They're preparing to go to warp!" Rahimi shouted.

_We can't let them get away,_ Archer realized instantly. _Not if we want to complete our mission. _"Target their engines!" he ordered, glancing back at the stand-in tactical officer. "Fire!"

…

As the future _Enterprise_bobbed and weaved through open space, trying to shake its pursuer, the battered starship shook and shuddered with the impact of phased energy beams. "They're targeting our nacelles!" Karyn reported, feeling an involuntary twinge of respect for the targeting skill. "They're trying to knock out our drive!"

The ship shook again with the impact of weapons fire. "Take us to warp!" Lorian ordered, scrambling to keep his feet.

"I can't," Karyn answered. Lorian looked at her with alarm. "They knocked out the starboard power couplings—warp drive's offline."

"Take us out at full impulse, then," Lorian replied, and he gave the final order. "Return fire!"

…

"They're firing on us!" T'Pol reported unnecessarily, sliding into her seat as the ship rocked around them. Archer let himself fall backwards into his chair, and gripped the armrests for stability as the deck rose and fell.

"Hull plating at sixty-one percent!" Ensign Rahimi added, watching the readings with one eye as she plastered the other _Enterprise_with another round of fire. "They're packing a punch!"

"Stay with them, Travis!" Archer shouted. The first klaxons started to shrill. "Shut off those damn alerts, and keep firing!"

"They have the same complement of weapons as we do," T'Pol commented, as she fed her tactical analysis into Rahimi's controls. "But they appear to have upgraded the strength—it is unlikely that we can win a direct firefight."

"That makes this a great time to try something different!" Archer answered, staggering back to his feet. The ship shook again, but this time he was ready, splaying his feet widely for stability. "T'Pol! Get down to the transporter, and stand by!"

"Aye, sir!" she shouted in acknowledgment, and promptly disappeared into the lift.

"Rahimi!" Archer added loudly. "Any chance of knocking out their weapons?"

…

"Bring us in low, underneath them," Lorian ordered, taking full advantage of his knowledge of the _Enterprise_'s weak points. It was an area in which he held a distinct advantage; he knew Archer's ship, but in the century past, his own vessel had been modified and adapted countless times. Archer wouldn't know where to fire.

Karyn brought their _Enterprise_into a graceful swoop, bringing them about for a direct shot.

…

"We've lost hull plating!" Rahimi shouted out. She was using one hand to operate the targeting scanners, and the other to hold her in her chair.

"T'Pol, what's your status?" Archer called out, hoping for a positive response. He gripped the armrests of the command chair, refusing to sit down in the middle of a battle.

"I can't establish a lock!" The Vulcan's voice carried through the comm channel, bellowing over the ruckus. "We need to get closer!"

"If we get any closer, we won't last for long!" Rahimi added in warning, but Archer realized that they had little choice: he only had one gambit up his sleeve.

"You heard her, Travis," Archer ordered firmly. "Take us closer, and hold us in."

"Aye, sir!" Mayweather replied, inputting the commands to bring them within whites-of-their-eyes distance to the other ship.

The bridge shook again as a power conduit exploded overhead. "We've lost power on C-deck!" Hoshi reported. "The EPS grid is winking out across the ship!"

"Captain!" Rahimi followed up a moment later. "Weapons are gone!"

"Two thousand meters!" Travis added, as the ships grew closer and closer.

"T'Pol!" Archer shouted. "We can't wait any longer! Transport!"

…

"Sir!" Greer shouted out in alarm, watching the blinking lights on the bridge's engineering console. "We have power drains all over the ship! Weapons are out! Hull plating—is offline!"

"What?" Lorian barked furiously, running across the bridge to see for himself. "What are they doing?"

"There's a problem with one of the primary EPS manifolds!" Greer ran an instant diagnostic, and the results came up 'null.' _How is that possible? _"It's like it's no longer there, sir!"

…

"Now lock onto their primary relays," Archer ordered over the ship's comm system. "They're on C-deck, junction twelve."

"Acknowledged," T'Pol replied, and she activated the transporter again.

…

"We're losing main power!" Karyn announced frantically. The helm console was shutting down in front of her eyes, and within a second, the bridge plunged into darkness. Only the light of the backup monitors remained, casting an eerie glow onto the future _Enterprise._

…

"Their main power is offline," Rahimi announced as the sensor readings came in. "Weapons, engines…they're dead in space, sir."

"Good work, T'Pol!" Archer said loudly, before shifting his attention to Hoshi. "See if you can raise them, Ensign."

"Aye, sir," Hoshi acknowledged. She focused intently for several moments. "I have them, sir," she said finally.

Archer nodded, then stepped forward; there was no visual pickup, but the movement was ingrained. "Lorian," he called out firmly. "This is Captain Archer. It looks like we've got some things that belong to each other. Why don't we call a truce and return our respective property?"

Before the future commander could answer, Archer was caught by a low tone from his tactical officer. "Sir!" Rahimi said, whispering softly. Archer turned. "Sir, they still have one torpedo in the forward tube. It's locked onto our starboard engine."

Archer raised an eyebrow, attempting to communicate silently. "Can they still fire it?" he whispered back.

"Yes, sir," Rahimi answered. "The manual release should still operate."

_Checkmate, _Archer thought to himself.

…

Lorian stood in the middle of his now-dark bridge. The darkness didn't bother him; his Vulcan genes were more sensitive than humans', and he could still see by the emergency glow of computer monitors. The quietness, although, that was something else; with his Vulcan hearing, true silence almost never occurred, and he had grown accustomed to the steady hum of machinery and equipment operating around him.

Now, however, the hum was gone, replaced only by the shallow breathing of his crew.

"I know you've got your finger on the trigger of a torpedo," Captain Archer was saying to him, across the emptiness of space. "If you fire that torpedo, you're going to hurt a lot of people over here."

_This is why a Vulcan is in command, _Lorian repeated, as if a mantra. _A human is too emotional—too sentimental—to make the tough decisions. The lives over there are insignificant when compared to the lives back on Earth that we are acting to save—the needs of the many must outweigh the needs of the few._

"I'm sorry, Captain," Lorian said finally. "I really am. I've always had a great amount of respect for you. I had hoped that you would be willing to listen, to work with us. But there is too much at stake here to allow you to interfere. We must complete our mission—nothing else matters."

Lorian saw Karyn turn to look at him. "We can't do this," she said quietly. These people are family, Lorian. I'm not going to let you kill them."

Lorian looked at his first officer with disbelief. "But what about our mission? What about saving Earth?"

"We'll simply have to find another way," she replied. "But this is over."

Lorian looked back at Greer, but the human stood up, folding his arms across his chest. _I should've known, _Lorian thought. If he indulged in human emotions, he would have described his heart as plummeting in his chest. _A hundred and eighteen YEARS of effort—wrecked at the last moment. _But it would be illogical to deny the reality.

"Very well then," Lorian said, taking a deep breath. "Stand down weapons. Tell Archer I want to talk."

…

"T'Pol? You in here?" Trip tentatively stuck his head through the open doorway, trying to discern the shape of an elderly Vulcan in the leaping shadows of T'Pol's quarters. Used to confidence, he was supremely uncertain of himself; he saw what looked like a humanoid form, but hesitated to enter.

The form quivered, indicating that it was alive. "Come in, Charles," a crackly voice responded. "Come have a seat; I've been expecting you."

Trip glanced backwards into the corridor and gulped. _Here goes nothing_, he thought, and he stepped forward, allowing the door to slide shut behind him.

As Trip entered the room, his eyes quickly adapted to the candlelight, and he looked around in surprise: the T'Pol he knew was the model of austerity, and eschewed any decorations—of any sort—in her quarters. This T'Pol, although—her room was decorated from floor to ceiling with an array of wall-mounted artwork and tapestries, all designed in the same earthy tones that gave the room the feel of a monk's cell.

"Have a seat," T'Pol croaked as she shed the robe from her head, revealing the deeply lined face that bespoke a lifetime of adversity. "Come talk to me, Charles."

Swallowing his pride, Trip took a seat in front of T'Pol. "No one's called me Charles in—in years," he commented wryly, unsure of how to begin.

The corners of T'Pol's mouth twitched upwards. "If it's any consolation, I'm the only person who will," she replied. "But you're here for a reason."

"Yeah," he said, and glanced around uncomfortably. "Well, Malcolm suggested that I come talk to you."

"What's bothering you, Charles?"

"I—well, I—my life just fell apart!" It opened like a floodgate. "Everything's going along, not great, but solid, and then one moment, I wake up and everything's falling to pieces on me! I can't—I can't—hell, I can't even think straight! Little things suddenly overwhelm me, the big things pound me senseless, and my entire life became unmanageable! And it seems like everything I've done to try to handle it has only made it worse! I can't do my job, I nearly kill one of my closest friends, and then when the ship is depending on me, I end up flat on my back in an alcoholic coma! I don't know what the hell's going on with me, T'Pol, but it's scaring me shitless!" Trip lowered his face into his steepled fingers. "I need some answers, T'Pol."

"And you expect me to provide those answers for you, Charles?"

Trip nodded miserably. "If you don't…I don't know what I'll do. I can't handle this anymore, T'Pol. It's too much."

"Charles, you've been carrying a lot of stress. I don't think anyone was as emotionally involved in this mission as you. If you don't give yourself an outlet for that tension, if you try to bottle it up inside, it'll turn on you and consume you. You need to let _go _of your stress and your anger."

"How do I do that, T'Pol?" Trip rubbed his face, trying to ease the thousand pinpricks of fatigue.

"When did this—this sensation of being out of control first overwhelm you?"

"When the captain asked me to write that damned letter to Taylor's parents," Trip said into his hands.

"Have you written it yet?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

Trip raised his face from his outstretched palms. "Why can't I write it? I'll tell you, T'Pol," and he hesitated, looking at his friend's—_friend? Lover? Perfect stranger?—_at the elderly T'Pol's concerned face. "'Cause every time I start, I hear myself saying what a fine young woman she was, how smart and full of potential."

"Why is that a problem?" T'Pol asked, probing gently. She knew there was more to come; a lifetime spent on board a human vessel—a lifetime spent grappling with her own emotions—had taught her well. Trip needed to explore the depths of his feelings, and she was ready to help him with it.

"Then I realize that I'm not thinking about Taylor at all," Trip answered, letting his eyes dance around the candle-lit room. It had a soft glow, a feeling of home that he never imagined he would find in an artificial environment deep in the coldness of space. "I'm thinking about Elizabeth."

Trip's voice dropped softly, but the words started flowing out. "I tried not to see her any differently than the other seven million—I mean, she's just one person, compared to all of them! How can that one death matter so much more?" It came out bitterly. "So I've spent the last nine months trying to pretend she was just another victim. But every time I close my eyes—every time I try to rest, or let my mind wander from my work—there she is. Illogical, isn't it?" Trip laughed harshly.

"There is often nothing logical about grief," T'Pol said soothingly. "But that doesn't negate it. You need to accept these feelings."

"She's my baby sister, T'Pol." Trip's voice cracked, and he began to cry. "My baby sister. Damnit, she was _special_!" The tears began flowing down his face. "I envy you Vulcans. So able to control these emotions."

T'Pol rested a reassuring hand on Trip's shoulder. "Do you think that the loss of a colleague or friend doesn't affect us?" she asked quietly. "It does. But we have to suppress those feelings—if we don't, they overwhelm us, and destroy us. You're the ones to be envied, Trip. You're able to _live _with your emotions. You can get through this, Trip, and I'm here to help you."

…

Lorian was sitting on the hard bench, his elbows on his knees, looking dejectedly at the deck plating when the main doorway to the brig slid open.

"You were lucky," Archer snarled, stepping forward in the low-lit gloom. "Phlox says the injuries on both ships were minor. You almost _crippled _us, Lorian. My mission would have been over."

Lorian didn't look up. "Your mission _is _over, Captain, you just won't accept it," he retorted. "I took the only logical course of action."

"Attacking your own ancestors doesn't sound very _logical _to me."

Now Lorian looked up, and Archer was surprised. Where he expected to see a look of anger, of fury, perhaps, he instead saw a haunting look of self-recrimination. "You wouldn't understand, Archer," Lorian said softly. "You can't. You haven't had to live with the responsibility of failure. Seven million people are _dead _because of me, and I owe it to them to complete this mission."

Archer was taken aback. "I'm sure your crew did everything they could to stop—"

_"I could have destroyed it!"_ Lorian rose to his feet angrily. "Do you _hear _me, Captain? I could have destroyed it, and I _didn't!_" Lorian stepped up to the transparent divider, staring at Archer through the divide. "I swore to my Captain—_you_—on his deathbed that I'd save those seven million lives! I made that promise to _you_, Archer! So don't feed me your bullshit—I devoted my entire _life _to that mission, I know I failed, and I know you've judged me! So spare me your human platitudes!" His voice shook with furious venom.

"You see, Captain, we _knew _the coordinates of the launch platform, we _knew _the _exact minute _the weapon was going to be deployed, and our attack plan—_my _attack plan—failed! So I was left with one last chance: use the _Enterprise_itself, set a collision course with the weapon. But I hesitated." Lorian's ire fell into anguish. "I lost control of my emotions, and they took over me. They wouldn't let me give an order that would kill my crew—my friends, my family, the people who have relied on me to keep them safe for _so many _years! I lost sight of our objective. By the time I realized my mistake it was too late. The probe was gone." His voice had fallen to a whisper.

"That's just part of being human," Archer replied at last, his voice quiet. "I know Vulcans believe that determining who lives and who dies is a simple matter of arithmetic, but it doesn't work that way for humans, Lorian. If I taught you anything, it should have been that success only matters if we don't betray who we are in the process."

Lorian glared at Archer balefully. "There are seven million deaths on my head, Captain, all because I was weak at the crucial moment, and allowed my human _softness _to interfere with my duty. I won't let my emotions get in the way again. I will not stand by while you throw away our last chance at stopping the second weapon."

Archer listened closely, carefully weighing Lorian's words and conviction, and made his decision.

Unlocking the door to the brig, Archer stepped inside the cell. "I could keep you locked up in here, Lorian, but that wouldn't do either of us any good," he replied. "Everything that's happened is water under the bridge—it's in the past, and it's the future that's important. All that matters is what we're going to do next. Now, whether you agree with it or not, I'm taking my ship into that corridor." Lorian nodded, accepting the finality of Archer's decision.

"But I'll stand a much better chance of completing this mission—_our _mission—if we work together," Archer continued. "So it's your choice, Lorian. What will it be?"

…

For the seventh time in three days, the door chimes to T'Pol's quarters sounded in the background, and the elderly Vulcan permitted herself a faint smile. _Right on time,_ she mused, pouring a cup of tea.

"Am I disturbing you?" T'Pol-1 stepped hesitantly through the doorway, taking in the candlelit room with a brief glance. She recognized several of the pieces of artwork decorating the walls as being classic Vulcan designs, but several more were unknown to her.

"Not at all," T'Pol-2 said, looking up at her younger counterpart. "Come in, please. Tea?"

"Chamomile?" T'Pol-1 asked hopefully as she slowly stepped forward. Her caution and discomfort reminded T'Pol-2 of a child entering the temples for their first solitary rites.

"Of course," T'Pol-2 answered. "It took me several years to reproduce, but chamomile tea is one of my favorites." She waved her hand, gesturing for T'Pol-1 to step closer.

As if remembering the reason for her presence, T'Pol-1 suddenly held out a data padd. "We had trouble with your modifications," she said, her voice firming up as he slipped into a professional demeanor. "We were only able to reduce our particle wake by eighty-six percent. The corridor could destabilize again. We discussed adding a second—"

"If you add an isomagnetic collector, it should absorb any residual particles," T'Pol-2 replied calmly, her voice crackling.

T'Pol-1 waited a moment, unwilling to interrupt herself. "I'm not familiar with that type of device," she said finally.

"It's something we picked up from the Ikarrans," T'Pol-2 answered. She tapped the controls of the data padd. "I'll download the schematics for you. Are you feeling better?" The last question was slipped in surreptitiously, but it still caught T'Pol-1's notice.

"What do you mean?" T'Pol-1 asked. She knew the intent of the question, but was hoping—illogically, perhaps—that T'Pol-2 was asking about something else.

"Our trellium use," T'Pol-2 answered. "The neurological damage. Have the symptoms diminished?"

"Surely you remember," T'Pol-1 replied. She did not feel comfortable talking about such a weakness—not even with herself.

"Perhaps I do," T'Pol-2 responded creakily. "But I'd like to hear it from you."

T'Pol-1 quickly reviewed her options, but saw no good way of extricating herself without offering, at least, a partial answer. "To a degree," she said finally. "But I haven't fully recovered yet."

"You'll fare much better if you don't focus on a complete recovery," T'Pol-2 answered. "It's the nature of the mind: when it undergoes such changes, it never completely returns to its starting point. Don't forget your tea, dear."

Visibly troubled, T'Pol-1 sat down on the neatly-made cot. "What am I supposed to do then?" she asked softly. "How am I ever going to find solace?"

T'Pol-2 slowly leaned forward. "The emotions you've unleashed will be with you the rest of your life, but there's no need to fear that. You can learn to live with them, as I have. You may not regain your old serenity, but you can find a new one. And, dear—it's very important to trust the people around you. There's someone on your ship who can make a real difference."

"Phlox has already given me a neural suppressant," T'Pol-1 responded, unsure if she wanted to hear the answer.

"I don't mean Phlox," T'Pol-2 said. "Charles. He can be an outlet for these feelings, if you'll trust him. I know the emotions he stirred in me were powerful and frightening—it scared me, and I tried to push him away. If the _Enterprise_hadn't been stranded in the past…it's possible I would never have married him." Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. "But I can't imagine how I would have muddled through without him."

T'Pol-1 tilted her head in question. "What do you suggest I do?"

"There's a human expression," T'Pol-2 answered. "Follow your heart." She handed the data padd back to her younger self.

Taking the padd, T'Pol-1 was feeling even more confused. "I'm not used to listening to my heart," she admitted gingerly. "What if I don't know what it wants? What if my _heart _doesn't even know what it wants?"

"Give it time, my dear," T'Pol-2 answered softly. "Give it time."

…

**Feb. 10, 2154**

For the first time in days—_weeks? Months?_—Trip felt relaxed and calm, at ease with the universe around him. He had spent most of the night in T'Pol's quarters, talking with the future version of his friend, and she had shared with him her own experiences with grief. Together, they had walked him through the first step, and at her suggestion, he was working on the next one.

"Computer, begin recording." He sat on the bunk in his quarters, no longer fidgeting, holding a picture frame in his lap. "Mr. and Mrs. Taylor," he began, "by the time you get this, Starfleet will have already told you about Jane. Since I worked so closely with her, I wanted to add my personal condolences."

Trip hesitated, trying to find the right words. "I have to confess," he said slowly, "that I've been putting off writing this letter for a while. I convinced myself that my duties on the _Enterprise_took precedence. But the truth is…I didn't want to face the fact that someone so young, with so much promise, could just be gone."

He swallowed back a lump in his throat. "But I'm facing it now," he continued. "And I find myself realizing how important she was to me. Jane was a great engineer—but she was also a great friend, and a great person. I wanted to let you know that those of us out here, who have served with her and known her for the last several years…we won't forget her. She won't be forgotten." His voice started to fail. "Sincerely, Commander Charles Tucker the Third, Chief Engineer, _Enterprise._ Computer, end recording."

Trip set the photo of his sister down on his bed. "Goodbye, Elizabeth."

…

Captain Archer, once again on the second-level scaffolding of the launch bay, looked down at the assembled crewmembers below. In defiance of the brutalized condition of the _Enterprise_, he had ordered the lights to full power and that the bulkheads and railings be scrubbed to their shiny best, and the room around him looked alive and vibrant: the minor repairs had been conducted, and the launch bay looked as ready as it did of the _Enterprise_'s mission to the stars.

But it was the people who rejuvenated Archer.

_Was it really just a week ago that we last met here? _he thought to himself, marveling at how many things had changed. The last time, the crew was beat up, physically and mentally, resembling a collection of the walking wounded—and not all of them had even been working, with half his command staff in sickbay. The wear and tear had been evident on each person's face, in their stance, and in their fatigued stride.

Now, they stood strong, clean, ready to face the marathon ahead of them. On the catwalk behind Archer, his entire senior staff stood proud and firm; Trip, looking like he had slept for a week, was trading surreptitious grins and inside jokes with Malcolm; Travis, standing straight at attention, was practically bouncing on his feet; T'Pol looked downright _eager;_ and Hoshi and Phlox rounded out the staff, able for the first time in weeks to leave their duty posts. _Something in the last few days has brought my crew back to life, _Archer realized. _I don't know what, but we owe a debt of gratitude._

Drawing in the strength behind him, Archer gazed out over the crewmembers below, and they returned his gaze with fierce pride.

Archer licked his lips and began. "At times like this, I wish Zefram Cochrane was present," he noted. "Not for his technical expertise, but for his speech-making abilities: he had an unparalleled ability to stick his foot in his mouth, but it was always good for a laugh." A few appreciative chuckles came back.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Every one of you has been through hell and back. I wish I could say that it was over, but it's not. The truth of the matter is, the worst is yet to come. I don't know what's going to happen when we come out the other end of that corridor, but we'll be in a race to the finish. I'm going to need everyone at their absolute best to see our mission through."

Not a single face looked away in doubt. Archer realized that he had never been so proud of his crew. "I wish I could give you good news," he continued, and he started pacing the catwalk. "I wish I could tell you that it'll be easy from here on out. But no one here signed up, expecting it to be easy." Scattered applause answered him.

"I don't even know if we'll survive," Archer went on, grimly. "In fact, the odds say that we won't. But here's the thing: our success will not be determined by our _own _survival. Our success will be determined by the survival of the billions of people back home!" His voice rose in angry fury. "That is our responsibility! That is our duty! That is our sacred mission!" A rapidly-intensifying roar answered him, and Archer imagined that he could hear each individual voice, from the high-pitched soprano of Ensign Masuko to the powerful bass rumble of Crewman Ackley.

"And as God is my witness—" Archer had to pause as the thunderous roar overpowered him. "As God is my witness, we will prevail! Listen, damnit! _WE WILL PREVAIL!"_

…

Lorian stepped onto the bridge of the E-2, feeling the powerful engines thrumming the deck beneath his feet. _It's good to be home,_ he decided, not unbraiding himself for the emotional sentiment. _She may be old, but she's never let us down._

He moved forward, into the well of the bridge, his movements taut and decisive. The crew, standing at attention, watched him attentively; they were ready for action, and ready for his orders.

Lorian tapped the comm panel. "Attention all hands! This is Commander Lorian," he announced, "of the starship _Enterprise._ We have spent many years chasing a singular mission, a singular destiny, and our time as arrived. We have all pledged our lives to stopping the Xindi weapon, and this is _our _moment, _our _chance to make a difference." He looked around, exchanging nods of pride with the bridge staff.

"We will be accompanying Captain Archer into the nebula," he continued. "Our duty: to make sure he enters the corridor safely. It is our responsibility to keep the Kovaalan raiders off his back. We must protect Archer's _Enterprise_until she enters the corridor. And we must succeed. So let's make sure history never forgets the name: _Enterprise_! Lorian out." He closed the channel amid roars of approval.

"Karyn, assume position," he ordered, sitting down on the edge of the command chair. "Take us in."

…

The nebula was gray and ugly before them, an uncontrolled miasma of burning gases and fusing atoms, roiling like an angered, monochromatic maelstrom.

"Weapons are standing by," Reed reported from tactical.

_It's good to have him back, _Archer told himself. The replacement crew was more than competent, but when charging into battle, there was nothing like having his tried-and-true command staff alongside him. "Take us in," the captain ordered. He waited a few moments in tense silence as the gases enveloped the _Enterprise. _"Are the signatures being reflected?"

T'Pol peered through her hooded viewer. "Yes, sir," she answered. "I'm reading multiple images."

"How long until we reach the corridor, Travis?"

"Six minutes, sir."

The great starship moved forward in relative silence, slipping between the protective layers of metreon gas. Archer realized he was holding his breath, and he let it out, softly.

"Captain!" Reed reported in alarm. "They've detected us! I'm reading three ships on an intercept course!"

Outside, three raiders swooped in like hawks, diving from the blanketing embrace of the nebula. They shot over the _Enterprise_, strafing the starship with weapons fire, and the battered ship shook with the impacts.

"Return fire!" Archer ordered, splaying his feet wide for balance.

"I can't, sir!" Malcolm cried out. "The nebula's interfering with our targeting scanners. I have to wait until they get closer!"

Archer spun to glare at his tactical officer. "They don't seem to be having the same problem, Lieutenant!"

"They've had time to adapt! They're making another pass!" The _Enterprise_shook again from the weapons fire as the raiders shot by. "Aft plating's at forty-two percent!" Malcolm reported.

Archer recognized that success not only required them to make it to the corridor; they had to make it relatively intact, and even a small amount of damage could prove fatal during their voyage through the subspace tunnel. "Malcolm!" he barked. "We need to shake them!"

"Just a few more seconds, sir!" Malcolm replied. He followed up momentarily. "We have a lock!"

"Archer to Lorian!" The captain shouted over the open comm channel. "Now!"

Hidden beneath the _Enterprise_, perfectly mirrored in its shadow, the older _Enterprise_emerged, veering off to starboard. It was visibly battered, beaten within a centimeter of its life, but the tough old ship was ready for a battle: and it spat out energy beams at the unsuspecting Kovaalan raiders. Lorian pulled his ship up, and the two _Enterprise_s crossed paths, shooting out a constant stream of fire at their enemy.

"The lead ship's been disabled," Malcolm reported moments later. "The other two are falling back to regroup."

With a satisfied smile, Archer finally took a seat in his command chair. "Well done, Commander!" he called out.

The Vulcan's voice carried a trace of humor. "They must have been surprised when your reflection turned and attacked!" Lorian replied. "With any luck, they're still trying to figure it out!"

"Captain!" Travis shouted in alarm. "We have a problem, sir!"

"What the hell is it?" Archer was on his feet and catapulted forwards.

"We're losing speed!" Travis reported.

"Tucker to the bridge!" The intercom beeped open almost simultaneously. "The last salvo took out the primary drive coil! I've got to shut down the port engine!"

Archer's head sagged. _And just like that, we're done,_ he thought miserably. _We made it fifteen seconds—out of six minutes. _His shoulders slumped. "Understood, Travis. Lorian—" he lifted his voice. "It looks like we're not going to be able to keep up with you."

…

Lorian heard the defeat in Archer's voice. It didn't sound like the captain he remembered, but then again, it _wasn't _the captain he remembered; too many changes had already occurred. _History doesn't repeat itself, _he knew. _At least, not precisely. Small, minute changes to the timeline can bring about wildly different outcomes. So be it: we can find a way out of this._

"The aliens are regrouping!" Karyn announced as her control board lit up. "Four ships, coming in fast! I'm not sure the other _Enterprise_can handle another hit, sir!"

"Very well," Lorian responded. "Karyn, bring us a hundred meters off Archer's bow. Greer, power the tractor emitters. Captain, tell your crew to brace themselves!" The orders came out quickly and firmly. Lorian was in his element now, and the adrenaline charged his body into a tense state of readiness.

…

"Captain, we're increasing speed!" Travis reported in surprise. "They've engaged some sort of tractor beam!"

"They're pulling us along," T'Pol reported from the science consol. "Our structural integrity is holding."

_Thank god for small favors,_ Archer told himself. He didn't know when the other _Enterprise_had picked up the tractor beam technology, but he was damn grateful. "Thanks for the lift, Lorian!" he called out.

"Captain!" This time, it was Malcolm. "Sir, the Kovaalans will be in weapons range in less than twenty seconds!"

…

"The aliens are closing," Karyn reported calmly, watching the sensor readings click down on her monitors. "Twelve thousand meters. Then thousand."

"Target their weapons," Lorian ordered. He sat perched on the edge of his command chair.

"They're firing!" The _Enterprise_-2 shook as the punishing salvo of energy blasts struck the battered ship, its well-worn systems struggling to stay alive under the thermal heat and electromagnetic pulses.

"Hull plating's holding!" Greer reported, "but not much longer! The aft plate's almost gone!"

"Sir, they're moving on Archer!" Karyn shouted.

"Stay between them, Karyn!" Lorian answered. "Greer, do what you can about that plating—we're not withdrawing! Weapons, fire torpedoes, full spread!" The _Enterprise_-2 shuddered with the unrestrained backlash of its torpedoes.

The _Enterprise_-2 was struck again, and Lorian found himself lying on the deck plating, a meter away from his chair. Grimacing, he looked down at his body, noticing green blood oozing from a deep wound; fractured remnants of a rib stuck out of it. Lorian shoved the woozy feeling back to the depths inside of him; there was a battle to be fought, and he knew this was a comparatively minor injury.

"We've lost hull plating!" Greer announced, his voice beginning to border on panic.

"Stand steady!" Lorian barked at his officer. The Vulcan struggled back to his feet, steadying himself with the back of his command chair. "How long until Archer's ship enters the corridor?"

"Forty-five seconds!" Karyn answered. The _Enterprise_-2 was hit again, hurtling instantly across kilometers of space, and Lorian gripped his chair with a bear hug, struggling to hold his place.

"Phase cannons are down!" Greer shouted a moment later. "Torpedoes on manual only!"

"They're trying to get around us!" Karyn reported. "They're targeting Archer's ship!" The bridge was doused with white light as a power relay overloaded. "Primary power is offline on B-deck, C-deck, and E-deck!"

"Disengage the tractor beam!" Lorian ordered. As the beam was terminated, its force carried the _Enterprise_-1 forward like a slingshot. "Bring us about, one-eight-zero-mark zero!" Despite its wounds, the _Enterprise_-2 whipped around, diving right through the center of the four Kovaalan ships, sending the raiders scattering.

"We'll keep them off your back, Archer!" Lorian called out. "Your momentum should carry you through!"

"They'll enter the corridor in twelve seconds!" Karyn reported.

This time, when the _Enterprise_-2 was hit, a concussive shockwave rippled through the unprotected ship. It tore through the massive duranium girders, shattering the alloys in its path; thousands of circuits and relays exploded across the starship, starting hundreds of fires; power flickered and died, the lights cutting out, replaced only with the harsh glow of flames.

Lorian dragged himself back to his feet, and staggered across to the engineering station, barely avoiding tripping over the burned body of Greer on the ground. "Report, Karyn!" he ordered roughly, seeing her out of the corner of his eye.

"Main power's out, secondary power's out, and I'm reading explosions across the ship!" she replied frantically, trying to restore her console to working order. "Engineering took a direct hit—magnetic containment is fluctuating!"

"What's the status of Archer's ship?" Lorian worked as he spoke, his hands flying as he transferred weapons control from the flaming tactical station to his own.

"They've entered the corridor!" Karyn answered gleefully, but her excitement only lasted a moment. "Our hull integrity's failing! The port warp pylon is starting to buckle!"

The _Enterprise_-2 was struck again by an energy salvo, and the bridge exploded into a kaleidoscope of light. Lorian watched in horror as, through the fiery surges, the helm imploded in a brilliant ball, sending Karyn's petite body halfway over the back of chair. Her lower body was stopped by the impact, but her upper body kept traveling, and Lorian's sensitive Vulcan ears could hear the sound of Karyn's spine snapping.

Lorian growled to himself, but refused to leave his post. He slaved what remained of helm control into his station, and set a final course into the midst of the raiders. Timing was not crucial; he knew they only had a few seconds left anyway.

As the Kovaalan raiders circled the stricken _Enterprise_-2, the magnetic containment fields separating the matter and anti-matter fuel fell, allowing the volatile substances to mix.

With a brilliant white light, the _Enterprise_-2 exploded in a ball of flames more powerful than a star's fusion reactions. Two of the raiders were caught in the blast, and were immediately snuffed out of existence; the remaining two spiraled away under the force of the blast wave, their systems damaged and engines nonfunctional.

Archer's _Enterprise_made it safely into the corridor.

…

The _Enterprise_emerged from the corridor smoothly, dropping back to sublight speed, and then a dead stop. Archer let out a deep breath, soaking in the temporary silence. "Where are we?" he asked finally, looking back at T'Pol.

"We've traveled eleven-point-six light years," she reported.

"Are we still in the right century?"

"The stars are where they're supposed to be," Travis confirmed, nodding.

_One, two, and three,_ Archer thought to himself. "Any signs of pursuit? Any signs of Lorian?"

"No, sir," Malcolm answered. "There's no sign of anything coming through the corridor."

Archer let his gaze drop to the floor in silence.

…

Captain's log, supplemental. It's been five hours, and Lorian's _Enterprise_hasn't arrived. Repairs to our own vessel are underway.

Archer's ready room was dark. The primary lighting was not a priority, and had yet to be fixed; the captain had chosen to take the secondary lighting offline. Instead, the small room was lit only by the starlight coming in through the viewport. Archer liked it that way; it gave the room a feeling of being separate from the concerns of the world, a place where he could escape to commune with the stars.

Now, he gazed out the viewport, trying futilely to count the number of visible stars. "One ship against four," he said absently. "I don't know how they could have survived."

"It is unlikely," T'Pol agreed, talking to Archer's back.

"Lorian does have years of command experience, although," Archer commented. "It's possible that he found some why out of it."

"Possible, perhaps, but unlikely," T'Pol demurred.

"There is another possibility," Archer added, and he turned away from the viewport. It took his eyes a second to detect the small Vulcan in the darkness. "Since we weren't thrown into the past, maybe, somehow, history corrected itself."

"Are you suggesting that the other _Enterprise_never existed?" T'Pol queried, raising both eyebrows. "If you're right, then how did we get through the corridor? Logic indicates that they _did _exist."

"But if we never went back through time—" Archer stopped. "Maybe we should just appreciate the encounter, rather than trying to puzzle out the paradoxes."

T'Pol nodded in agreement. "That is a good suggestion, Captain."

"It does make you wonder, although, doesn't it?" Archer's voice grew faint, and the two shared a companionable moment of silence.

"Bridge to Captain Archer." Hoshi's voice intruded into the still room.

"Go ahead," Archer said, already ruing the loss of the moment of serenity.

"Could you come out here, sir?"

…

"A ship's dropping out of warp," Travis reported as Archer stepped onto the bridge.

"It's Degra," Hoshi confirmed. "He's hailing us, sir."

Archer nodded, and stepped into the viewscreen's line-of-sight. "Put him up," the captain ordered.

The face of the Xindi-primate filled the screen. "Captain," Degra said. "You're early. I hope the trip wasn't too difficult."

Archer could offer no response that would do justice to the events of the previous three days.

* * *

[1] _Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead, _by Tom Stoppard.


End file.
